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WILD  ROSES  OF  CAPE  ANN, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


LUCY  LARCOM. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND    COMPANY. 
<£&e  Btoerst&e  Press, 

1881. 


Copyright,  1880, 
BY  LUCY  LARCOM. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass. : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

jitp  Public; 

NOT  CRITICS,   BUT  FRIENDS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

WILD  ROSES  OF  CAPE  ANN «       .       7 

THE  LITTLE  BROWN  CABIN  ......          n 

MY  MARINER      .        ...        .        .        .        .       «        .12 

AT  GEORGES 16 

THE  OLD  HYMNS 19 

RAPE'S  CHASM         ........          25 

THE  SEA'S  BONDMAID        .        .        .  r  .29 

ON  THE  MISERY «       «  31 

MY  NAME-AUNT 38 

A  STRIP  OF  BLUE 41 

THE  LADY  ARBELLA «  -44 

SWEET-BRIER 5° 

MISTRESS  HALE  OF  BEVERLY    ....««•      52 

SYLVIA ..*...         63 

FLOWER  OF  GRASS     .       .        . 68 

MEHETABEL     .........        .       .       *       .        .          70 

FERN-LIFE  .        ...........       *       .      75 

PHEBE      .  .      . .      .  -      ....      . .      .        .        .        .        .          77 

IN  THE  AIR        .....        «        .        *       .        «        .81 

BESSIE  AND  RUTH 82 

GOLDEN  DAISIES        .......        .        .        .        .        .85 

BARBERRYING 87 

A  GAMBREL  ROOF .        »       *      90 

GOODY  GRUNSELL'S  HOUSE ,97 


IV  CONTENTS. 

THE  FOG-BELL 101 

OLD  MADELINE 102 

THEY  SAID 107 

GOLDEN-ROD IO8 

AT  HER  BEDSIDE m 

OVER  THE  HILL II2 

WORKMATES TI^ 

THE  WATER-LILY n8 

MY  MERRIMACK u^ 

THE  FIELD-SPARROW I2$ 

OCTOBER     ...       . I2^ 

WHEN  THE  WOODS  TURN  BROWN 127 

NOVEMBER  .        . I28 

A  WHITE  WORLD 131 

SNOW-BLOOM      ... 133 

BETWEEN  WINTER  AND  SPRING 134 

FREIND  BROOK   ... 135 

ONE  BUTTERFLY 140 

WHITE  EVERLASTING  FLOWERS .142 

ON  THE  LEDGE 146 

UP  THE  ANDROSCOGGIN 148 

IN  A  CLOUD  RIFT 151 

MOUNTAINEER'S  PRAYER 154 

ASLEEP  ON  THE  SUMMIT 156 

SHARED      . 157 

FROM  THE  HILLS  .        .        .       .        .        .       . .     «.       .  159 

A  PASSING  SAIL        ...       ......        .       .160 

BERMOOTHES    .        .        . .      .  .      .  .      .  .      . .      .        .        .  162 

THE  SUNSET-BIRD  OF  DOMINICA     .       .       .       .       .       .167 

SEA  AND  SKY.       .       .       .       . 171 

HORIZON     ...       . 172 

R.  W.  E.         .        .        ....        ....        .        .  175 

J.  G.  W.     .  .     .        . .       .  176 

O.  W.  H.  .    ..  .     .       .  .     .        .       .        .       .       ...  178 


CONTENTS.  V 

GROWING  OLD   .        . 180 

A  PRAIRIE  NEST     .        ....        .        •        •       .  182 

A  WHISPER  OF  MEMORY 185 

THROUGH  MINNEHAHA'S  VEIL 187 

IN  VISION   .        .        . I91 

NEED  AND  WISH 193 

THRIFTLESS 195 

No  Loss 197 

WHAT  COMETH? 199 

A  FRIEND 201 

MY  FEAR                    J 203 

COME  HOME 206 

BEFRIENDED 209 

F.  W.  R 212 

SHOW  ME  THY  WAY 214 

THE  HEART  OF  GOD 215 

INDWELLING       .        . 221 

PRAYING  ALWAYS 223 

CHRIST  THE  LIGHT    .        . 226 

A  STRAY  LEAF 228 

NOT  PURE,  BUT  PURIFIED 229 

MYRA 231 

YE  DID  IT  UNTO  ME 237 

WOMAN'S  EASTER .  238 

WHY  LIFE  is  SWEET         .        .        .  v 240 

THE  TRUE  WITNESS .  243 

DAILY  BREAD .245 

MY  CUP  RUNNETH  OVER 248 

OUR  CHRIST 249 

THE  LADDER  OF  ANGELS 251 

WINTER  MIDNIGHT    . 253 

SKA-SIDE  HYMN     .        . .  255 

DRAWING  NEARER     .                257 

His  BIRTHDAY        ...<......  261 


vi  CONTENTS. 

DOOR  AND  KEEPER 263 

THY  KINGDOM  COME 265 

IMMORTAL  YEARS      .  266 

FORETASTE 269 

YET  ONWARD 271 


WILD   ROSES   OF   CAPE   ANN/ 


WILD  roses  of  Cape  Ann  !     A  rose  is  sweet, 
No  matter  where  it  grows  ;  and  roses  grow, 
Nursed  by  the  pure  heavens  and  the  strengthening 

earth, 

Wherever  men  will  let  them.     Every  waste 
And  solitary  place  is  glad  for  them, 
Since  the  old  prophet  sang  so,  until  now. 
But  our  wild  roses,  flavored  with  the  sea, 
And  colored  by  the  salt  winds  and  much  sun 
To  healthiest  intensity  of  bloom,  — 
We  think  the  world  has  none  so  beautiful. 
Even  from  his  serious  height,  the  Puritan 
1  Stooped  to  their  fragrance,  and  recorded  them 
"  Sweet  single  roses,"  maidens  of  the  woods, 
The  lovelier  for  their  virgin  singleness. 
1  And  when  good  Winthrop  with  his  white  fleet  came, 

1  Allusions  to  the  early  history  of  Cape  Anne  may  be  verified  by 
referring  to  the  Narrative  of  Captain  John  Smith,  to  the  records  of 
Hubbard,  Higginson,  Winthrop,  and  others,  —  and  to  the  local  histo 
ries  of  the  shore-towns  of  Massachusetts,  northeast  of  Salem. 


8  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

Skirting  the  coast  in  June,  they  breathed  on  him, 
Mingling  their  scent  with  balsams  of  the  pine, 
And  strange  wild  odors  of  the  wilderness  : 
Their  sweetness  penetrated  the  true  heart 
That  waited  in  Old  England,  when  he  wrote 
"  My  love,  this  is  an  earthly  Paradise  !  " 

No  Paradise,  indeed  !  the  east  wind's  edge 
Too  keenly  cuts,  albeit  no  sword  of  flame!. 
Yet  have  romantic  fancies  bloomed  around 
This  breezy  promontory,  ever  since 
1  The  Viking  with  the  commonest  of  names 
Left  there  his  Turkish  heroine's  memory, 
Calling  it  "Tragabigzanda."     English  tongues 
Relished  not  the  huge  mouthful ;  and  a  son, 
Christening  it  for  his  mother,  made  Cape  Anne 
Bloom  with  yet  one  more  thought  of  womanhood. 

But  never  Orient  princess,  British  queen, 

Left  on  this  headland  such  wild  blossoming 

Of  romance  dashed  with  pathos,  — roses  wet 

With  briny  spray,  for  dew  drops,  —  as  to-day 

Haunts  the  lone  cottage  of  the  fisherman, 

In  hopes  half-suffocated  by  despair, 

When  the  Old  Salvages  foam  and  gnash  their  teeth, 

And  all  the  battered  coast  is  vexed  with  storms 

Down  the  long  trend  of  Maine,  to  Labrador. 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  9 

Had  Roger  Conant,  patriarch  of  the  Cape, 
Who  left  the  Pilgrims  as  they  left  the  Church, 
To  seek  a  fuller  freedom  than  they  gave,  — 
Freedom  to  worship  God  in  the  ancient  way, 
Clothing  the  spirit's  heavenward  flight  with  form, — 
Had  Roger  Conant,  kindliest  of  men, 
One  forethought  of  the  flood  of  widow's  tears 
Wherewith  this  headland  would  be  drenched,  —  the 

sea 

Has  no  such  bitter  salt !  —  had  he  once  dreamed 
Of  vessels  wrecked  by  hundreds,  amid  shoals 
And  fogs  of  dim  Newfoundland,  he  had  left 
Doughty  Miles  Standish  an  unchallenged  claim 
To  every  inch  of  coast,  from  Annisquam 
To  Marblehead.    l  "  What  ?"  said  the  Plymouth  folk, 
"  Shall  Conant  seize  our  fishing-grounds  ?     Shall  he 
Who  went  out  from  us,  being  not  of  us, 
Take  from  our  children's  mouths  their  rightful  food 
For  strangers  who  might  stay  at  home,  unstarved, 
Unpersecuted  ?     What  does  Conant  mean  ? 
Let  Standish  see  !  "     The  two  met,  face  to  face, 
Lion  and  lamb  ;  and  first  the  lamb  withdrew, 
And  then  the  lion  ;    neither  having  found 
Food  for  a  quarrel  on  these  ledges  bare. 
Standish  sailed  back  to  Plymouth  ;  Conant  sought 
A  quiet  place,  suiting  a  quiet  man, 
Lived  unassuming  years,  and  fell  asleep 
Among  the  green  hills  of  Bass-River-Side. 


IO  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

So  Tragabigzanda  washed  her  granite  feet, 
Careless  of  rulers,  in  the  eastern  sea. 
But  still  the  hardy  huntsmen  of  the  deep 
Clung  to  their  rocky  anchorage,  and  built 
Homes  for  themselves,  like  sea-fowl,  in  the  clefts. 
And  cabins  grouped  themselves  in  villages, 
And  billows  echoed  back  the  Sabbath  bells, 
And  poetry  bloomed  out  of  barren  crags, 
With  life,  and  love,  and  sorrow,  and  strong  faith, 
Like  the  rock-saxifrage,  that  seams  the  cliff, 
Through  all  denials  of  east  wind,  sleet,  and  frost, 
With  white  announcements  of  approaching  spring  : 
Or  like  the  gold-and-crimson  columbines 
That  nod  from  crest  and  chasm,  a  merry  crowd 
Of  rustic  damsels  tricked  with  finery, 
Tossing  their  light  heads  in  the  sober  air  : 
For  Nature  tires  of  her  own  gloom,  and  Sport 
Laughs  out  through  her  solemnities,  unchid. 

The  sailor  is  the  playmate  of  the  wave 

That  yawns  to  make  a  mouthful  of  him.     Songs, 

Light  love-songs  youth  and  joy  lilt  everywhere, 

Catch  sparkle  from  the  sea,  and  echo  back 

Mirth  unto  merriment,  — spray  tossed  toward  spray 

Hark  to  the  fisher,  singing  as  he  rocks, 

A  mote  upon  the  mighty  ocean-swell ! 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  II 


THE    LITTLE    BROWN    CABIN. 

I  dream  of  it,  tossing  about  in  my  skiff, 
The  little  brown  cabin  just  under  the  cliff : 
The  wild  rose  blown  in  at  the  window  I  see, 
And  Rose  at  the  door,  looking  out  after  me ; 

My  sweetheart,  my  wife, 

The  Rose  of  my  life  ! 

The  sun  in  the  doorway  strikes  gold  from  her  hair  ; 
The  breeze  fills  the  little  brown  house  with  salt  air, 
And  she  leans  to  its  breath,  as  if  over  the  sea 
It  were  bringing  a  kiss  and  a  message  from  me ; 
My  pretty  wild  Rose, 
The  sweetest  that  grows  ! 

I  have  not  one  wish  from  my  darling  apart : 
The  thought  of  her  sweetens  my  soul  and  my  heart : 
And  my  boat  like  a  bird  flies  across  the  blue  sea 
To  the  little  brown  cabin  where  Rose  waits  for  me, 

The  Rose  of  my  life, 

My  own  blessed  wife ! 


And  hark  —  the  gay  voice  of  the  skipper's  bride  ! 
The  sea  is  but  a  wild  delight  to  her, 


12  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Companion  of  her  childhood,  and  its  toy. 
She  loves  no  landsman,  but  her  mariner 
Lives  in  her  heart,  the  very  soul  of  the  sea ! 


MY   MARINER. 

Oh,  he  goes  away,  singing, 

Singing  over  the  sea  ! 
Oh,  he  comes  again,  bringing 

Joy  and  himself  to  me ! 
Down  through  the  rosemary  hollow 

And  up  the  wet  beach  I  ran, 
My  heart  in  a  flutter  to  follow 

The  flight  of  my  sailor  man. 

Fie  on  a  husband  sitting 

Still,  in  the  house  at  home  ! 
Give  me  a  mariner,  flitting 

And  flashing  over  the  foam  ! 
Give  me  a  voice  resounding 

The  songs  of  the  breezy  main ! 
Give  me  a  free  heart,  bounding 

Evermore  hither  again  ! 

Coming  is  better  than  going  ; 
But  never  was  queen  so  grand 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  13 

As  I,  while  I  watch  him  blowing 

Away  from  the  lazy  land. 
I  have  wedded  an  ocean-rover, 

And  with  him  I  own  the  sea  ; 
Yet  over  the  waves,  come  over, 

And  anchor,  my  lad,  by  me ! 

Hark  to  his  billowy  laughter, 

Blithe  on  the  homeward  tide ! 
Hark  to  it,  heart !  up  and  after  — 

Off  to  the  harbor-side  — 
Down  through  the  rosemary  hollow, 

And  over  the  sand-hills,  light 
And  swift  as  a  sea-bird,  follow  ! 

And  ho  !  for  a  sail  in  sight ! 


When  the  coast-country,  from  Bass  River  east 

To  Agawam,  was  known  as  Cape-Ann-Side, 

Up  from  the  ferry  ran  one  winding  road 

Through  pleasant  Beverly,  past  Wenham  Lake, 

Losing  itself  in  the  Chebacco  woods 

Among  a  hidden  chain  of  gem-like  ponds  :  — 

A  cow-path,  so  the  ancient  gossips  say, 

Branching  upon  the  left  through  Ryal-Side 

To  Salem  Village  ;  and  upon  the  right, 

Skirting  the  seashore,  down  through  Jeffrey's  Creek 


14  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

And  the  magnolia-swamp,  to  Sandy  Bay, 

And  Pigeon  Cove,  and  sheltered  Annisquam. 

Thanks  to  the  zig-zag  pioneering  kine 

For  picturesque  roads,  impossible  to  spoil 

By  levelling  or  by  straightening.     Two  score  years 

Of  memory,  and  we  have  them  back  again, 

Lovely  with  Nature's  care  and  man's  neglect ; 

Lanes,  and  yet  highways,  bordered  with  all  growths 

Of  the  rich  glens  and  the  primeval  woods. 

The  shyest  bird  trilled  frankly  his  best  song 

In  the  low  boughs  above  you  :  from  cool  nooks 

The  graceful  sweet-brier  leaned,  to  show  the  way, 

When  the  June  twilight  deepened.     Even  now 

You  slip  into  these  rose-roads  unaware. 

Just  out  of  reach  of  landscape-gardeners, 

And  farmers  beauty-blind,  whose  synonym 

For  poison-oak  and  rose  is  —  underbrush  ! 

Some  flavor  of  the  natural  wildness  left 

Compensates  you  for  groves  too  clean  and  trim, 

The  ubiquitous  French  roof,  the  shaven  lawns, 

The  modern  villas  posing  on  the  verge 

Of  roadside-precipices,  consciously, 

In  the  Rhine-castle  manner, — everything 

That  hints  of  Nature  closely  taken  in  hand 

By  patronizing  Wealth,  and  stroked  and  smoothed 

Into  surburban  elegance.     Weather-worn 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN.  15 

And  homely  were  the  ancient  farmhouses, 
But  well  they  harmonized  with  the  old  ways, 
Old  roads,  old  woods,  old  faces,  and  old  friends, 
And  all  the  sweet  old  mystery  we  call  home. 

Alas  !  simplicity  and  homeliness 
Are  studied  now,  among  the  finer  arts, 
And  the  old  words  lose  their  meaning ! 

Still  the  heart 

Of  childhood  remains  fresh,  and  poverty 
And  hardship  shut  its  unspoiled  fragrance  in 
To  their  safe  coffers.     Crowds  of  rosy  cheeks, 
And  eyes  that  mock  the  morning,  seaward  turned, 
Where  the  pink  sails  at  sunset  faded  out 
Far,  far  northeast,  when,  outward-bound,  the  fleet 
Left  home  and  love  behind,  and  steered  away 
For  the  Grand  Banks  or  Georges',  grow  and  bloom 
Along  the  wayside,  climbing  the  stone  walls,  — 
Beckoning  and  smiling  as  wild  roses  do,  - 
Looking  for  those  who  never  will  return. 
The  fisher's  child  scarce  knows  if  sea  or  shore 
Is  most  his  home  ;  and  yet  must  Georges'  name  - 
The  dragon-shoal  that  counts  his  wrecks  by  scores  — 
Bring  dreams  of  nightmare-terror  to  the  babe 
Who  hears  it  only  through  a  mother's  moan. 


l6  WILD    ROSES    OF   CAPE    ANN. 


AT  GEORGES'. 

The  children  call  out  from  the  gate, 
"  Why  is  father  staying  so  late  ? 

We  have  almost  forgotten  his  song, 

So  long  since  we  heard  it  —  so  long ! 
The  wind  whistles  after  him  over  the  sea ; 
We  watch  for  him,  shout  for  him  ;  where  can  he  be  ? 

Oh,  what  is  he  doing  at  Georges'  ? 

And  why  does  he  tarry  at  Georges'  ?  " 

The  children  have  heard,  through  their  sleep, 

At  nightfall,  the  sad  mother  weep : 
"  He  will  never,  no,  never  again 

Come  singing  through  sunshine  and  rain  : 
They  are  cruel  at  Georges'  as  cruel  can  be  ; 
A  desolate  widow  and  orphans  are  we  : 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep  at  Georges'  ; 

He  will  never  come  home  from  Georges'." 


Dreary  indeed  had  been  our  fathers'  lot,  — 
Fed  and  slain  by  the  sea,  —  had  they  been  poor 
In  faith  as  fortune  !     But  they  trusted  Him 
Who  taketh  up  the  isles,  and  holds  the  sea 
In  the  deep  hollow  of  His  hand ;  and  so, 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  I/ 

Bereft,  they  were  not  friendless.     Men  went  forth 
Warmed  by  a  benediction  in  God's  name 
Breathed  through  His  minister.   The  meeting-house, 
That  saw  a  wanderer  in  his  place  again 
Upon  a  Sabbath-day,  resounded  thanks. 
And  when  dread  tidings  came,  of  vessels  lost, 
And  crews  gone  down,  words  writ  in  widows'  tears, 
Through  silence  thick  with  heart-throbs,  asked  the 

prayers 

Of  all  who  loved  them,  that  love's  loss  might  bring 
A  "spiritual  and  everlasting  good  :  "  — 
Always  the  same  desire,  the  same  strong  phrase. 

Are  we,  in  our  great  churches,  nearer  God 
Than  they,  that  we  have  now  no  need  to  ask, 
As  persons,  of  a  Person,  of  a  Friend, 
The  help  no  human  sympathy  can  give, 
When  sudden  sorrow  blinds  us,  and  we  see 
Only  a  darkness,  with  His  light  behind  ? 

Those  dwellers  by  the  sea  believed  in  God  : 
Out  of  her  need  the  widow  heard  Him  say 
"  Thy  Maker  is  thy  husband  ;  "  and  was  sure 
Her  orphans  would  be  cared  for. 

Nothing  strange  — 

That  where  death  wrought  so  ruthlessly  his  work, 
Men  grew  to  think  of  His  as  tenderer  love 


1 8  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Than  Calvin  taught.     And  yet,  the  stern  beliefs 
That  underlay  the  sinewy  manliness 
Of  our  dear  State's  first  builders,  —  no  great  State 
Had  ever  arisen  without  them.     "  Righteousness 
Thy  people's  strength  shall  be  ;  "  —  they  wrote  upon 
Her  fair  foundation-stones  ;  yet  uneffaced  ; 
Never  to  be  effaced,  —  so  let  us  pray ! 

The  psalms  of  David  in  the  singing-seats 

Of  the  old  meeting-house  ;  —  bass-viol,  flute, 

And  tuning-fork,  —  and  rows  of  village-girls, 

With  lips  half-open,  —  treble  clashed  with  bass 

In  most  melodious  madness,  —  voices  shrill 

Climbing  for  unreached  keys,  —  grave  burying  soft 

In  solemn  thunders  ;  —  fugues  that  rush  and  wait 

Till  lagging  notes  find  the  accordant  goal,  — 

Who  never  heard,  has  forfeited,  through  youth, 

A  rare  experience.     Since  the  untrained  choir 

Could  lift  the  congregation,  as  one  soul, 

Their  singing  was  true  worship  ;  and  what  more 

Ask  we  of  any  ministry  of  song  ? 

The  hymns  themselves  (men  call  them  tedious  now) 

Made  their  own  music  in  the  reverent  heart 

That  never  criticised  when  it  could  praise. 

The  voice  of  an  unnumbered  multitude, 

A  sound  of  many  waters,  —  echoes  swept 

From  age  to  age,  — the  universal  Church 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 


Uttering  her  glad  thanksgivings  unto  Him 
Who  saves  her  for  Himself,  a  spotless  Bride,  — 
Are  in  them  —  harmonies  of  deep  to  deep,  — 
The  children  with  the  fathers  praising  God. 


THE   OLD   HYMNS. 

Our  homely  past  we  cannot  lose  : 
The  witch-wife's  tingling  tale 

Adds  a  weird  sparkle  to  these  dews, 
Spices  this  eastern  gale  : 

The  war-whoop  and  the  tomahawk 

Left  iron  in  the  air  ; 
The  pilgrims'  nerve  and  will  of  rock 

Fell  to  their  children's  share. 

But  memory's  voice  grows  low  and  thin  ; 

As  thunder,  passing  by, 
Leaves  a  reverberating  din, 

Trailed  faintly  down  the  sky. 

Still,  wandering  over  field  and  hill, 

And  surging  up  the  beach, 
Are  songs  that  wake  a  nobler  thrill 

Than  our  new  singers  teach. 


20  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

The  Psalm-tunes  of  the  Puritan  ;  — 

The  hymns  that  dared  to  go 
Down  shuddering  through  the  abyss  of  man 

His  gulfs  of  conscious  woe  : 

That  scaled  the  utmost  height  of  bliss 
Where  the  veiled  seraph  sings, 

And  worlds  unseen  brought  down  to  this 
On  music's  mighty  wings  : 

The  tunes  the  Plymouth  Pilgrims  sang 

Upon  the  Mayflower's  deck ; 
From  hearts  that  knew  no  dread  they  rang, 

And  faith  that  feared  no  wreck. 

The  rapt  strain  hallowed  the  blue  arch 

Above  the  settler's  farm, 
And  held  him,  in  his  forest  march, 

Closer  to  God's  right  arm. 

Its  sweetness  drowned  the  savage  yell 

That  jarred  the  Sabbath  day, 
And  calmed,  as  with  a  halcyon  spell, 

The  billows  of  the  bay. 

The  mother  lulled  her  babe  to  sleep 
With  those  grand  cadences, 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  21 

And  felt  him  folded  safe  and  deep 
Within  God's  mysteries. 

And  children's  voices  caught  the  sound, 

And  sent  it  up  and  down 
In  cherub-echoes,  far  around, 

From  seaside  town  to  town. 

From  wild  Nahant  to  Agawam, 
Blent  with  the  surf's  hushed  roar, 

By  creeks  and  curves  of  lonely  Squam, 
They  floated  down  the  shore. 

The  fisherman  in  Mackerel  Cove 

Rowed  softly  to  the  song  ; 
By  Mingo's  Beach  the  farmer  drove 

More  cheerily  along ; 

And  thought  that  He  who  died,  still  walked 

Upon  the  Atlantic  Sea, 
On  these  wild  hills  with  plain  men  talked, 

As  once  in  Galilee. 

The  green  earth  seemed  an  emerald  floor  ; 

The  sky  was  sweet  with  prayer ; 
The  sunset,  heaven's  wide  open  door  ; 

Nay,  heaven  was  everywhere. 


22  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Then  is  it  strange  that  at  the  sound 
Of  these  old,  hackneyed  hymns, 

The  pulses  give  a  homesick  bound, 
The  eye  with  moisture  swims  ? 

The  long,  quaint  words,  the  hum-drum  rhyme, 
The  verse  that  reads  like  prose, 

Are  relics  of  a  sturdier  time    ' 
Than  modern  childhood  knows. 

There  comes  a  loss  for  every  gain  ; 

Some  good  drifts  hourly  by  ; 
We  tear  up  aged  roots  with  pain, 

Though  the  old  trees  must  die. 

The  radiance  of  the  former  hope 

Still  beckons  in  the  new  ; 
Dear  is  the  present's  widening  scope, 

Dear  the  old  landmark,  too. 

Ah  !  let  us  not  forget  the  strength 

That  more  than  beauty  is ; 
The  steadfast  truth  we  prize  at  length 

Beyond  weak  tenderness  ! 

And  when  we  sing  some  hard  old  hymn, 
That  rings  like  flint  on  steel, 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  23 

Let  not  a  shade  of  mockery  dim 
The  flame  its  words  reveal. 

But  let  our  piping  treble  sound 

Harmonious  as  it  may, 
With  music  loftier,  more  profound, 

Of  singers  passed  away  ! 


Cape  Ann  has  her  own  poets,  nightingales 
Warbling  among  her  roses,  rarely  beard, 
Except  by  those  who  woke  that  minstrelsy ;  — 
And  she  hath  joy  in  other  voices  :  hers 
Who  saw  and  pointed  to  the  Gates  Ajar 
So  earnestly,  the  world  turned  to  look  in  ; 
And  his  whose  rippling  notes  the  Merrimack 
Brings  down    to  charm   the  coast  with,  —  Avery's 

chant, 

Surging  up  from  the  seas  and  centuries 
In  dying  triumph,  —  and  the  marvellous  tale 
Of  spectral  soldiers  at  the  garrison 
In  times  of  war  and  witchcraft ;    and  that  bard's 
Whose  tender  Ballad  of  the  Hesperus 
Blooms,  a  sweet,  pale,  pathetic  flower  of  song, 
From  the  bare  reef  of  Norman's  Woe.     Cool  coves, 
That  open  to  blue  breadths  of  sea  ;  lost  roads, 
Wandering,  bewildered,  past  forsaken  homes, 


24  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

House  and  inhabitant  forgotten  now, 

And  grass-grown  cellar-hollows  their  sole  sign  ; 

Strange  rocking-stones  a-tilt  for  centuries  ; 

White  lily-ponds  and  dank  magnolia-beds  ; 

Sands  that  give  music  to  your  footstep  ;    pines 

Hoarse  with  forever  answering  the  sea's  moan,  — 

These  will  awaken  to  poetic  life 

In  hearts  of  unborn  minstrels.     Though  too  late 

For  resurrection  of  dead  legends  now, 

Though  Woes  and  Miseries  haunt  us,  unexplained, 

Though  all  the  dangerous  coast  is  lighted  up, 

Safe  as  a  city  street  by  night,  —  the  gleam 

Of    Straitsmouth,  Eastern    Point,   and  Ten   Pound 

Light, 

And  Thacher's  Isle,  twin-beaconed,  winking  back 
To  twinkling  sister-eyes  of  Baker's  Isle,  — 
Prosaic  names  await  romantic  births. 
Man  makes  his  own  traditions ;  life  and  death 
And  love  and  sorrow  baffle  commonplace ; 
And  poesy  will  find  her  wilderness 
Of  fancy  to  grow  up  in,  blithely  free 
From  pedant  -  theories  of  thus  and  so, 
That  fence  the  schools  around. 

Yon  gaping  gorge, 

Where  the  sea  wounds  the  half-unconscious  land 
Deeply  and  terribly,  already  knows 
A  tale  more  tragic  than  its  name  conceals, 
Left  by  the  visitors  of  a  summer's  day. 


WILD    ROSES    OF   CAPE   ANN.  2$ 


RAPE'S    CHASM. 

You  come  to  it  on  level  ground  : 
Sweet-fern  and  bayberry,  close  around, 

The  jutting  crags  hang  over  ; 
An  echo  of  lost  sound  is  Rafe, 
The  phantom  of  an  unclaimed  waif, 

Doomed  ever  here  to  hover. 

Rafe  has  no  legend,  but  the  chasm 
Bears  record  of  some  torturing  spasm 

That  wrenched  these  cliffs  asunder, 
When  earth  and  sea  in  madness  met ; 
The  waves  repeat  their  passion  yet, 

In  throbs  of  rhythmic  thunder. 

A  black  gash  torn  into  the  land : 
When  tides  are  out,  you  safely  stand 

Within  the  abysmal  hollow, 
And  see,  across  a  shred  of  sky, 
A  pale  rose  look  down  tremblingly, 

A  swaying  gull  or  swallow. 

But  when  the  sea  returns,  beware ! 
Though  safely  winds  the  cavern-stair, 
Trust  not  the  treacherous  billow  ! 


26  WILD    ROSES   OF   CAPE   ANN. 

Rafe  moans  within  his  dungeon-gates  ; 
A  demon  for  his  victim  waits  ; 
The  smooth  rock  is  death's  pillow. 

Just  where  you  stand,  a  girl,  one  day, 
Stood  watching  the  impetuous  play 

Of  surges  bellowing  after 
The  baby-waves  with  ponderous  bound, 
That  made  the  gorge,  far  in,  resound 

With  chords  of  savage  laughter. 

Unwrinkled  as  an  infant's  brow 

The  gray  Sea's  forehead  ;  wondrous,  how 

Out  of  so  deep  a  quiet 
So  wild  a  tumult  could  unfold  ! 
What  inward,  vast  restraint  controlled 

The  elements  in  riot ! 

The  calm  of  that  great  heaving  breast 
Lulled  hers  into  enchanted  rest ; 

The  stealthy  tide  crept  nearer? 
She  heard  her  comrades'  warning  call 
Break  sharply  down  the  beetling  wall, 

Each  instant  sterner,  clearer. 

"  Let  me  but  wait  for  one  wave  more  !  " 
The  words  were  scarcely  breathed,  before 
A  mighty  billow  lifted 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  2J 

The  heedless  maiden  high  upon 
His  giant  crest,  —  and  she  is  gone  ! 
Out  into  silence  drifted. 

What  does  the  cold,  bright  ocean  care 
For  shapes  that  gesture  their  despair 

Against  the  blue  sky  yonder  ? 
Laughs  the  dim  demon  of  the  cave : 
Of  one  more  victim  he  can  rave, 
When  idlers  hither  wander. 

Within  his  chasm,  the  ghost  of  Rafe 
Sits  like  a  mist,  when  east  winds  chafe 

The  muttering  sea  to  anger  ; 
A  phantom  maiden  by  his  side, 
With  spell-bound  eyes,  that  open  wide 

In  trance  of  deathly  languor. 

Time  and  the  waves  wash  lives  away 
Like  wisps  of  sea-weed  ;  each  to-day 

Is  drowned  in  some  to-morrow  ; 
And  grief  hath  ebb,  as  well  as  flow. 
Who  shall  give  back  to  Norman's  Woe 

Its  unremembered  sorrow  ? 

Earth  writes  her  ancient  anguish  out 
In  solid  rock ;  no  dream,  no  doubt ; 
Obliterated  never. 


28  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Man's  troubled  history  who  explains  ? 
The  mystery  of  ourselves  remains 
Forever  and  forever ! 


An  aged  sorcerer  is  the  Sea  ;  the  years 

Reverberate  his  glamourie  in  myths 

Washed  down  from  unknown  shores  of  time  :  —  the 

wiles 

Of  that  ensnaring  goddess  borne  in  foam 
Upon  the  sands  of  Paphos  ;  siren-songs 
That  wise  Ulysses  dared  not  trust  himself 
To  listen  to  unbound  ;  blind  shoals  and  rocks 
Where  Circe  made  men  beasts  :  and  Proteus'  arts  ; 
Rages  of  Scylla  and  Charybdis  ;  —  myths 
Which  are  but  the  vague  murmurs  of  a  sea 
Forever  surging  in  the  soul  of  man. 

Still  the  magician  by  his  sorcery  holds 

All  whom  he  hath  enslaved  :  his  grasp  is  firm  ; 

His  chains  are  riveted  ;  and  you  are  one 

With  the  strange  Power  that  will  not  let  you  go. 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN.  2Q 


THE   SEA'S   BONDMAID. 

I  do  not  love  the  Sea  ; 

And  yet  he  draweth  me, 
As  the  moon  draws  the  unwilling  tide  - 
Restless  forever  —  to  his  side. 

All  night  awake  I  lie, 
And  hear  him  toss  and  sigh 
In  vague,  unreasoning  distress 
At  his  own  homeless  loneliness. 

I  do  not  seek  the  Sea ; 

And  yet  he  followeth  me 
With  that  weird,  haunting  voice  of  his, 
Through  the  sweet  inland  silences. 

I  love  the  west  wind's  breath, 

That  softly  wandereth 
Out  of  the  forest-fragrance  deep, 
A  tryst  of  peace  with  me  to  keep. 

Release  me,  sullen  Sea ! 

I  would  be  free  of  thee, 
Far  hidden  among  mountains  green, 
That  laughing  rivulets  run  between. 


3O  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

In  vain  !     Thy  monotone 
Is  as  my  own  heart's  moan  : 

Thy  tides  are  pulses  in  my  breast ; 

And  thy  unrest  must  be  my  rest ! 


And  yet  the  ocean  weds  the  shore,  sometimes, 
With  perfect  interchange  of  light  and  joy  ; 
Gently  caressing  the  green  fields,  that  smile 
To  meet  him,  putting  on  their  freshest  robes  ; 
Land-birds  to  sea-birds  singing  ;  pines  and  oaks 
Hastening  down  to  unite  the  melodies 
Of  bough  and  billow  :  such  are  the  blue  sea 
And  the  bright  coast  that  meet  within  the  curves 
You  follow,  loitering  around  Kettle  Cove, 
And  Eagle  Head,  and  past  the  Singing  Sands, 
And  by  the  sea-fringed  Farms  of  Beverly. 

The  loveliest  scenery  of  that  lovely  town 
Lay  on  its  ocean  border  ;  miles  of  shore, 
Verdant  out  to  the  verge  of  beach  or  cliff, 
With  varying  tints  of  gardens,  orchards,  hills,  — 
Evergreen  forests,  intermixed  with  growth 
Of  the  light  maple  and  the  glimmering  birch  ; 
And  quaint  old  homesteads,  whose  colonial  date 
Was  hid  far  back  among  the  Indian  wars  ;  — 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN.  31 

All  washed  by  landlocked  waters  drowsily, 
As  by  faint,  lapsing,  half-dreamed  memories. 

Beauty  must  still  have  contrast ;  yonder,  see 

Two  tawny  islands,  floundering  like  whales 

As  near  land  as  they  dare,  —  The  Miseries,  — 

The  Great  and  Little  Misery,  made  two 

By  a  swift  strait  the  cattle  ford  at  ebb, 

Ruminating  as  they  wade.     Mere  lumps  of  earth,  — 

The  least  one  takes  the  sea's  brunt,  —  buttresses 

And  bastions  worn  by  the  besieging  East. 

Once,  landing  on  this  Little  Misery, 

I  saw  it  white  with  everlasting-flowers,  — 

A  snowy  cloud  upon  the  blue  expanse, 

Like  those  that  float  in  heaven  :  I  told  myself 

That  other  miseries  might  root  amaranth. 


ON  THE  MISERY. 

Looking  just  off  to  the  eastward 
From  the  beautiful  Beverly  shore, 

You  will  see  two  treeless  islands 
Stretching  their  blank  before 

The  harbor-lights  and  the  sea-waste  gray, 

A  mile  or  more  from  the  beach  away. 


32  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

These  are  the  Misery  Islands  : 
The  name  has  been  handed  down 

From  the  twilight  of  lost  tradition  : 
The  oldest  man  in  the  town 

Has  never  heard  his  grandfather  say 

Why  the  Misery  was  the  Misery. 

They  were  clad  in  sombre  forests 
When  the  earliest  settler  came ; 

And  the  old-time  hunter  found  them 
A  covert  for  noble  game  : 

Every  fish  that  swam,  every  fowl  that  flew, 

The  lonely  nooks  of  the  Misery  knew. 

They  had  cut  off  the  trees  for  firewood 
Long  ere  my  grandsire's  birth  ; 

Still  the  wild  duck  came  to  their  shelter, 
And  the  loon,  with  his  mocking  mirth, 

Made  eddying  inlet  and  pool  resound, 

When  the  sea  was  blue  as  the  skies  around. 

The  little  ancestral  cottage, 

Shut  in  by  a  hill-side  wood, 
With  its  windows  opening  seaward, 

In  a  bower  of  orchards  stood  ; 
Over  the  marshes,  away  from  the  road, 
Its  ample  hearth-fire  at  evening  glowed. 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN.  33 

A  pastoral,  homelike  picture  ; 

Rocks,  grainfields,  and  summer  flowers  ; 
But  when  the  wind  howled  in  the  chimney, 

And  autumn  shortened  the  hours, 
To  be  safe  underneath  its  friendly  roof 
Was  pleasanter  far  than  straying  aloof. 

My  grandsire  arose,  sea-restless  ; 

The  red  dawn  was  threatening  rain  : 
"Don't  go  to  the  Misery,  husband  !  " 

The  kind  lips  murmured  in  vain  : 
He  took  his  fowling-piece  from  the  beam, 
And  rowed  away  by  the  lurid  gleam. 

My  grandmother  put  by  her  spinning ; 

The  day  had  been  eerie  and  chill  ; 
The  hoarse  wind  rattled  the  windows, 

And  bent  the  great  pines  on  the  hill  : 
She  laid  her  children  in  bed  with  a  prayer, 
And  sat  by  the  firelight,  full  of  care. 

"  What  keeps  him  away  after  sunset  ? 

So  bleak  on  the  Misery  — 
And  the  night  shutting  in  so  stormy  ! 
I  wish  he  were  here  !  "   thought  she. 
When  a  wilder  gust  down  the  chimney  blew, 
And  she  heard  the  voice  that  so  well  she  knew. 
3 


34  WILD   ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

Louder  than  shriek  of  the  tempest, 

Clearer  than  ocean's  rote, 
She  heard  the  cry  of  her  husband : 

"Wife  !  I  have  lost  the  boat ! " 
Nor  thought  for  a  moment  it  could  not  be, 
With  the  Misery  out  a  mile  in  the  sea. 

She  latched  the  door  on  her  children  ; 

She  wrapped  her  head  from  the  blast, 
And  into  the  rain-drenched  forest 

With  the  speed  of  a  wild  deer  passed 
Through  the  starless  lane,  and  the  long,  dark  road 
That  led  where  her  nearest  kinsmen  abode. 

They  turned  to  her,  dazed  and  startled. 

Had  the  storm  burst  in  at  the  door  ? 
What  was  it  —  a  half-drowned  woman, 

Or  a  ghost,  so  white  on  the  floor  ? 
"  My  husband  's  adrift  on  the  Misery  ; 
Go  you  and  fetch  him  away  ! "  said  she. 

"  He  went  his  gun  and  his  dory, 

And  the  boat  has  been  washed  away  ; 
He  is  there,  without  food  or  a  shelter  !  " 

"  And  how  can  you  know  it  ?  "  ask  they, 
"He   called,    and    I    heard  him." — "A   woman's 

whim ! 
Who  faces  this  furious  gale  for  him  ?  " 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN.  35 

"  Either  I,  or  you,  his  brethren  : 

Go  you,  or  myself  will  go  ! 
The  Hand  that  controls  the  tempest 

Steers  safely,  and  I  can  row !  " 
"  Nay,  stay  you  here  by  the  fireside  warm  ! 
You  never  could  weather  so  wild  a  storm." 

They  steer  through  the  seething  darkness  ; 

The  voyage  is  quickly  made  ; 
They  have  found  him,  watching  and  waiting, 

As  one  who  expected  aid  : 
And  he  only  said,  as  the  boat  drew  near, 
"  I  knew  that  God  or  my  wife  would  hear." 

A  silent  man  was  my  grandsire  ; 

But,  half-way  home  through  the  wood, 
He  said,  with  a  doubt  born  of  safety,  — 

"  Wife,  surely  you  never  could, 
In  a  gale  so  fearful,  have  heard  my  call, 
Except  by  some  witchcraft,  after  all ! 

"  For  it  died  on  the  wind  like  a  whisper  ; 

I  scarcely  could  draw  my  breath, 
And  my  voice  was  weak  as  a  baby's, 

While  the  sleet  fell,  cold  as  death  !  " 
"  Yes  ;  witchcraft,  husband  !  but  such  alone 
As  wives  who  are  faithful  have  always  known." 


36  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Oh,  Love  is  a  wonderful  wizard  ; 

He  can  see  by  his  own  keen  light : 
He  laughs  at  the  wrath  of  the  tempest ; 

He  has  never  a  fear  of  the  night. 
Two  lives  that  are  wedded,  leagues  hold  not  apart : 
Love  can  hear,  even  through  thunder,  the  beat  of  a 
heart ! 

A  sunny,  sea-blown  cottage-nook  was  that,  — 
My  father's  home,  his  grandsire's  father's  home,  — 
Set  where,  as  from  a  shoulder,  her  green  cloak 
The  land  trails  to  the  ocean,  and  begins 
The  reach  of  Cape-Ann-Side.     Upon  the  hills 
The  apple-trees  met  the  descending  pines  ; 
Sweet-brier  and  garden-roses  intertwined  ; 
Nature  and  cultivation  joined  their  hands 
To  make  a  home-like  place  ;  —  so  buttercups 
And  daisies,  dropped  with  English  grass-seed,  grew 
Among  strange  blooms  of  the  aboriginal  woods, 
And  cheered  the  Pilgrim-women  with  a  thought 
Of  dear  haunts  left  behind  ;  their  children  now 
Scarce  know  Old  England's  wild  flowers  from  our 

own, 

But  love  the  naturalized  as  the  natural.  — 
So  in  the  human  world,  without,  within, 
Orson  and  Valentine  live  brotherly  ;  — 
Though  art  needs  nature  more  than  nature  art. 


WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN.  37 

A  sunny,  sea-blown  nook,  it  gathered  in 

All  strays  and  waifs  :  loose  drifts  of  slavery, 

Stranded  in  pitiful  helplessness,  dead  weight 

Upon  their  master's  hands  ;  or  the  lone  shape 

Of  some  Acadian  exile  —  Gabriel 

Homesick  for  his  Evangeline  —  whose  grief 

Found  no  unburdening  through  his  lips  :  not  one 

Who  needed  food  or  shelter  turned  aside, 

Albeit  a  patriarchal  family 

Outgrew  and  overgrew  the  gambrel  eaves,  — 

A  line  of  stalwart  boys  and  vigorous  girls, 

Whose  hands  were  their  sole  fortune  ;  character 

And  trust  in  God  their  sole  inheritance. 

The  boys  went  forth  to  face  the  winds  and  waves, 

Hunters  by  sea  and  land  :  the  girls  grew  up, 

Loving,  hardworking,  patient  homekeepers, 

Their  minds  fresh  with  sea-freedom ;   all  heaven's 

room 
In  the  large  aspiration  of  their  faith. 

Thank  God  for  those  old-fashioned  sea-side  folk, 
And  for  the  home  that  rooted  their  strong  lives 
For  many  generations.     Virtues  far 
Outperfuming  the  rose,  —  pure  souls,  untouched 
By  the  world's  frosty  standards,  —  are  not  these 
True  growths  of  our  New  England  atmosphere, 
By  rarest  of  exotics  unreplaced  ? 


38  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE   ANN. 

Strangers  have  found  that  landscape's  beauty  out, 
And  hold  its  deeds  and  titles.     But  the  waves 
That  wash  the  quiet  shores  of  Beverly, 
The  winds  that  gossip  with  the  waves,  the  sky 
That  immemorially  bends,  listening, 
Have  reminiscences  that  still  assert 
Inalienable  claims  from  those  who  won, 
By  sweat  of  their  own  brows,  this  heritage. 
Fibres  will  cling,  and  odors  haunt :  the  Past 
Blooms  deathless  in  the  unforgetting  heart,  — 
A  birthright  flower,  an  immortality ! 


MY   NAME-AUNT. 

I  can  see  her,  as  she  grew 
By  the  sea,  in  spray  and  dew, 
Little  girl  and  woman  too. 

Childhood  soberly  she  wears, 
Taking  hold  of  woman's  cares 
Through  love's  outreach,  unawares. 

Glint  of  ocean,  depth  of  sky, 
Tenderness,  intensity, 
Blending  in  her  large  blue  eye. 


WILD   ROSES    OF   CAPE   ANN.  39 

Fair  she  must  have  been,  in  sooth, 
While  the  freshness  of  her  youth 
Blossomed  out  of  inward  truth  ; 

Where  the  pathos  of  the  wave 
To  her  maiden  feelings  gave 
Wistful  wonder,  sweetness  grave. 

Everybody  called  her  good, 
When,  with  steady  feet,  she  stood 
On  the  heights  of  womanhood. 

Ere  I  saw  her,  locks  of  brown 
Into  silvery  bands  had  grown  ; 
Age  had  placed  on  her  his  crown. 

Still  in  dreams  her  face  I  view,  — 
Noblest  that  my  childhood  knew,  — 
Motherly  and  saintly  too. 

Seriously  my  eyes  she  read  ; 
Laid  her  hand  upon  my  head,  — 
Once  —  again,  —  two  brief  words  said  : 

Liquid  syllables,  that  fell 

On  my  child-heart  like  a  spell  : 

My  name,  borne  by  her  so  well. 


40  WILD    ROSES    OF    CAPE    ANN. 

Softly,  with  a  yearning  grace, 
Said  she,  searching  still  my  face,  — 
"  Never,  dear,  the  name  disgrace  !  " 

Since  that  hour,  I  wear  a  charm 
In  the  charge  she  gave  ;  her  arm 
Shields  from  many  an  unseen  harm. 

And  I  bless  her  for  an  aim 
Fixed  upon  the  Best,  that  came 
As  my  portion,  with  her  name  : 

Name  she  gave  me,  that  confers 
Honor  in  its  characters  ; 
Standing  for  a  life  like  hers. 

And  I  fain  would  make  it  sweet 

For  the  sea-winds  to  repeat 

Where  she  strayed,  with  childish  feet; 

Down  the  beach,  and  through  the  wood, 
Where  she  grew  so  gently  good 
In  her  wild-rose  maidenhood. 


A  STRIP   OF  BLUE. 

I  DO  not  own  an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  I  see  is  mine,  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields, 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are, 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine,  — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free  ; 
And,  more  magnificent  than  all, 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity, — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fleets  and  argosies  ; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze, 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams ; 

Each  bears  my  own  picked  crew ; 


42  A    STRIP    OF    BLUE. 

And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Than  ever  India  knew,  — 
My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  living  shapes, 

The  people  of  the  sky,  — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  heaven,  which  is  close  by  ; 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names, 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh. 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like, 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom  ! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight ; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south, 

Spread  out  from  morn  to  night ; 
We  miss  the  warm,  caressing  shore, 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole  ; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told. 
The  fringes  of  eternity,  — 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold, 


A    STRIP    OF    BLUE.  43 

In  that  bright  shred  of  glimmering  sea, 
I  reach  out  for  and  hold. 

The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist ; 
The  waves  are  broken  precious  stones,  — 

Sapphire  and  amethyst 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls, 

By  suns  unsetting  kissed. 
Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space, 

Past  where  the  gray  stars  drift, 
To  the  widening  Infinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift, 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child  ; 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase  ; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before. 
Thy  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me  ; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be  ; 
Glad  when  is  opened  unto  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  Thee. 


THE  LADY  ARBELLA.1 

THE  good  ship  Arbella  is  leading  the  fleet 

Away  to  the  westward,  through  rain-storm  and  sleet; 

The  white  cliffs  of  England  have  dropped  out  of 

sight, 

As  birds  from  the  warmth  of  their  nest  taking  flight 
Into  wider  horizons,  each  fluttering  sail 
Follows  fast  where  the  Mayflower  fled  on  the  gale 
With  her  resolute  Pilgrims,  ten  winters  before,  — 
And  the  fire  of  their  faith  lights  the  sea  and  the 

shore. 

1  Written  for  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  land 
ing  of  Governor  Winthrop  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  June  22d  (or  O. 
S.  June  1 2th),  1630. 

The  Arbella  was  anchored  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  inside  the 
islands,  just  off  the  shore  of  Beverly,  then  called  Bass-River-Side  ; 
and  many  of  the  people  went  ashore  and  gathered  wild  strawberries,  — 
as  is  recorded  by  Winthrop  in  his  Journal. 

The  story  of  Lady  Arbella,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Lincoln,  and 
wife  of  Mr.  Isaac  Johnson,  —  the  narrative  of  the  long  and  stormy 
voyage  of  Winthrop's  fleet  to  our  shores,  and  her  death,  followed  by 
that  of  her  husband,  within  three  months  after  their  arrival,  are  fa 
miliar  to  the  readers  of  our  earliest  colonial  history. 


THE    LADY    ARBELLA.  45 

There  are  yeomen  and  statesmen ;  the  learned  and 

rude, 

One  brotherhood  ;  jealousy  cannot  intrude 
Between  heart  and  heart ;   with  one  purpose  they 

go,— 

To  knit  life  to  life,  a  new  nation,  and  grow 
In  the  strength  of  the  Lord.     There  are  maidens 

discreet, 

And  saintliest  matrons  ;  but  none  is  so  sweet 
As  the  delicate  blush-rose  from  Lincoln's  old  hall, 
The  Lady  Arbella,  the  flower  of  them  all. 

Beloyed  and  loving,  one  stands  at  her  side, 

A  bridegroom  well  matched  with  so  lovely  a  bride : 

Wise  Winthrop  is  balancing  care  in  his  mind 

For  the  colony's  weal,  for  the  wife  left  behind ; 

And  godly  and  tolerant  Phillips  is  there, 

To  comfort  his  shipmates  with  blessing  and  prayer : 

One  and  all,  they  have  taken  their  lives  in  their  hand 

To  be  scattered  as  seed  in  a  wilderness  land. 

There   is   hope    in    their    eyes,   though   it   gleams 

through  regret  ; 

They  go  not  as  those  who  can  lightly  forget 
The  Church,  their  dear  mother,  —  the  land  of  their 

birth, 
In  the  glamour  that  flushes  an  unexplored  earth,  — 


46  THE    LADY    ARBELLA. 

A  limitless  continent,  fringing  the  rim 
Of  the  silent  sea  vastness  with  promises  dim  ; 
And  their  love,  reaching  back  from  the  voyage  be 
gun, 
Links  Old  and  New  England  forever  as  one. 

They  drift  through  blank  midnight ;  they  toss  in  the 

mist, 

Blown  hither  and  thither  as  wild  winds  may  list ; 
Moons  wane,  ere  a  glimpse  of  the  land  that  they 

seek 
Breaks   the  chaos  of  billow  and   fog  :    though  the 

cheek 

Of  Arbella  grows  pale,  with  a  clear,  kindling  eye, 
She  says,  "  It  is  well  that  we  go,  though  we  die." 
And  the  heart  of  the  bridegroom  beats  high  at  her 

side, 
In  response  to  the  undismayed  heart  of  his  bride. 

And  still,  side  by  side,  they  keep  watch  on  the  deck, 
Till   the   faint   shore   approaches  —  an  outline  —  a 

speck 

That  wavers  and  sinks,  and  arises  again, 
Undefined,  on  the  outermost  verge  of  the  main. 
And  lo  !  on  a  golden  June  morning,  a  smell 
As  of  blossoming  gardens,  borne  over  the  swell 
Of  the  weltering  brine  ;  cliff  and  headland  that  dip 
Their  green  robes  in  the  sea,  leaning  out  to  the  ship  ! 


THE    LADY    ARBELLA.  47 

And  shining  above  them,  afar  on  the  sky 
Where  the  coast-line  trends  inland,  the  snow-sum 
mits  high, 

A  glimmer  of  crystal !     The  lady's  rapt  gaze 
Lingers  long  on  that  wonder  of  filmy  white  haze, 
As  a  vision  of  mountains  celestial,  that  rise 
On  the  soul  of  the  dying,  who  nears  Paradise. 
Did  she  know,  could  she  dream,  that  to  her  it  was 

given 

But   to  touch  at  this  new  world,  and  pass  on  to 
heaven  ? 

There  looms  Agamenticus ;  beckons  Cape  Ann  ; 
There   a   smoke-wreath   reveals    Masconomo's    red 

clan, 

Or  the  camp-fire  of  settlers ;  and  here  a  canoe, 
Here  a  shallop  steers  out  to  the  storm-beaten  crew. 
The  low  islands  part,  as  an  opening  door, 
And  they  glide  in,  and  anchor  in  sight  of  the  shore, 
Where  the  wild  roses'  fragrance,  the  strawberries' 

scent, 
With  the  music  of  song-bird  and  billow  is  blent. 

Did  the  Lady  Arbella's  light  foot  touch  the  beach  ? 
Did   the   sweet-brier   sway   to   her   laugh   and   her 

speech  ? 
Waves  wash  away  foot-prints  ;  winds  sweep  from  the 

air 


48  THE    LADY    ARBELLA. 

Glad  echoes,  fresh  odors  ;  —  her  memory  is  there  : 
And  the  wild  rose  is  sweeter  on  Bass-River-Side 
For  breathing  where  once  breathed  the  sweet  Eng 
lish  bride; 

And  the  moan  of  the  surges  a  pathos  has  caught 
From  her  presence  there,  brief  as  the  flight  of  a 
thought. 

Grave  Endicott  welcomes  his  beautiful  guest : 
At  last  in  the  wilderness  shall  she  find  rest, 
And  dream  of  the  cities  to  rise  at  her  feet 
In  a  nation  where  mercy  and  righteousness  meet  ? 
Dear  Lady  Arbella  !  so  brave  and  so  meek  ! 
Too  fragile  a  flower  for  this  atmosphere  bleak,  — 
When  the  rose  shed  its  petals  on  Bass-River-Side, 
The  blush-rose  of  Lincoln  had  faded  and  died. 

But  a  soul  cannot  fail  of  its  gracious  intent ; 

We  are  known,  and  we  live,  through  the  good  that 

we  meant. 
The   seed  will  spring   up,    that  was  watered   with 

tears  ; 
If  an  angel  looked  on,  through  those  first  dreary 

years 

Of  the  colony's  childhood,  and  bore  up  its  prayer, 
The  spirit  of  Lady  Arbella  was  there ; 
And  to  whatever  Eden  her  footsteps  have  flown, 
New  England  still  claims  her  —  forever  our  own  ! 


THE    LADY    ARBELLA.  49 

For  the  lady  arose  to  her  womanhood  then, 
When  gentry  and  yeomanry  simply  were  men 
In  communion  of  hardship.     All  honor  be  theirs 
Whose  names  on  her  forehead  the  Commonwealth 

wears,  — 

Who  planted  the  roots  of  our  freedom  !     Nor  yet 
The  blossoms  that  died  in  transplanting  forget,  — 
The  true-hearted  women  who  perished  beside 
The  Lady  Arbella,  the  fair  English  bride ! 


SWEET-BRIER. 

ROSE,  with  a  fragrance  diffused, 

Of  crushed  gums  and  spicery  bruised, 

Through  petal  and  stem  and  leaf,  — 
Thou  art  as  the  presence  of  one 
Through  deep  glens  of  Paradise  gone, 

Far  beyond  reach  of  my  grief. 

Thy  soft  lamp  illumines  the  dell ; 
The  gray  granite  smiles  in  thy  spell ; 

Pink  torch  of  the  pasture's  brown  gloom, 
Thy  lithe  boughs,  that  gracefully  sway, 
Thy  delicate  odors,  to-day 

Restore  me  her  womanly  bloom. 

Wild  buds  awoke  under  her  hand  ; 
Rare  blossoms  would  rise  and  expand 

In  the  heaven  of  her  eyes'  blessed  blue  ; 
And  her  heart  and  her  being  were  flowers 
That  lit  up  the  desolate  hours, 

And,  storm-beaten,  lovelier  grew. 


SWEET-BRIER.  5 l 

Spirit,  that  madest  earth  sweet, 
Across  barren  hill-sides  my  feet 

Go  seeking  thee,  missing  thee  still ; 
Yet  thy  love  in  my  life  doth  remain, 
A  memory  that  pierces  to  pain,  — 

A  perfume,  a  pathos,  a  thrill. 

If  a  blossom  from  heaven  could  lean, 
A  rose-flush,  a  glory  of  green 

Trailing  over  the  blank  wall  of  death, 
I  think  it  would  bring  back  to  me 
A  waft  of  fresh  woodlands  and  thee,  — 

Sweet-Brier,  her  soul  in  thy  breath  ! 


MISTRESS   HALE   OF  BEVERLY.1 

THE  roadside  forests  here  and  there  were  touched 

with  tawny  gold  ; 
The   days  were   shortening,  and   at  dusk    the   sea 

looked  blue  and  cold  ; 
Through  his  long  fields  the  minister  paced,  restless, 

up  and  down  ; 
Before,  the  land-locked  harbor  lay ;  behind,  the  little 

town. 

No  careless  chant  of  harvester  or  fisherman  awoke 
The  silent  air;  no  clanging  hoof,  no  curling  weft  of 
smoke, 

1  "  What  finally  broke  the  spell  by  which  they  had  held  the  minds  of 
the  whole  colony  in  bondage  was  their  accusation,  in  October,  of  Mrs. 
Hale,  the  wife  of  the  minister  of  the  First  Church  in  Beverly.  Her 
genuine  and  distinguished  virtues  had  won  for  her  a  reputation,  and 
secured  in  the  breasts  of  the  people  a  confidence  which  superstition 
itself  could  not  sully  nor  shake.  Mr.  Hale  had  been  active  in  all  the 
previous  proceedings ;  but  he  knew  the  innocence  and  piety  of  his 
wife,  and  he  stood  forth  between  her  and  the  storm  he  had  helped  to 
raise.  The  whole  community  became  convinced  that  the  accusers 
in  crying  out  upon  Mrs.  Hale  had  perjured  themselves  ;  and  from 
that  moment  their  power  was  destroyed."  —  Upham's  Salem  Witch 
craft. 


MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY.  53 

Where  late  the  blacksmith's  anvil  rang  ;  all  dumb  as 

death,  —  and  why  ? 
Why  ?  echoed  back  the  minister's  chilled  heart,  for 

sole  reply. 

His  wife  was  watching  from  the  door  ;  she  came  to 
meet  him  now, 

A  weary  sadness  in  her  voice,  a  care  upon  her 
brow ; 

A  vague,  oppressive  mystery,  a  hint  of  unknown 
fear, 

Hung  hovering  over  every  roof  :  it  was  the  witch 
craft  year. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looked  into  his 
face, 

And  as  he  turned  away,  she  turned,  beside  him  keep 
ing  pace : 

And,  "  Oh,  my  husband,  let  me  speak,"  said  gentle 
Mistress  Hale, 

"  For  truth  is  fallen  in  the  street,  and  falsehoods 
vile  prevail. 

"  The  very  air  we  breathe  is  thick  with  whisperings 

of  hell  : 
The  foolish  trust  the  quaking  bog,  where  wise  men 

sink  as  well, 


54  MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY. 

Who  follow  them  :  O  husband  mine,  for  love  of  me, 
beware 

Of  touching  slime  that  from  the  pit  is  oozing  every 
where. 

"  The  rulers  and  the  ministers,  tell  me,  what  have 
they  done, 

Through  all  the  dreadful  weeks  since  this  dark  in 
quest  was  begun, 

Save  to  encourage  thoughtless  girls  in  their  unhal 
lowed  ways, 

And  bring  to  an  untimely  end  many  a  good  woman's 
days  ? 

"  Think  of  our  neighbor,  Goodwife  Hoar,  —  because 

she  would  not  say 
She  was  in  league  with  evil  powers,  she  pines  in  jail 

to-day : 
Think  of  our  trusty  field-hand,  Job,  —  a  swaggerer, 

it  is  true,  — 
Boasting  he  feared  no  Devil,  they  have  condemned 

him  too. 

"And   Bridget  Bishop,  when  she   lived  yonder  at 

Ryal-Side, 
What  if  she  kept  a  shovel-board,  and  trimmed  with 

laces  wide 


MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY.  55 

Her  scarlet  boddice  ;  grant  she  was  too  frivolous 

and  vain,  — 
How  dared  they  take  away  the  life  they  could  not 

give  again  ? 

"Nor  soberness  availeth  aught;  for  who  hath  suf 
fered  worse, 

Through  persecutions  undeserved,  than  good  Re 
becca  Nurse  ? 

Forsaken  of  her  kith  and  kin,  alone  in  her  de 
spair, 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  God's  ear  were  closed  against 
her  prayer. 

"  They  spare  not  even  infancy  :  poor  little  Dorcas 
Good, 

The  vagrant's  child,  —  but  four  years  old! — who 
says  that  baby  could 

To  Satan  sign  her  soul  away,  condemns  this  busi 
ness  blind, 

As  but  the  senseless  babbling  of  a  weak  and  wicked 
mind. 

"Is  it  not  like  the  ancient  tale  they  tell  of  Phae 
ton, 

Whose  ignorant  hands  were  trusted  with  the  horses 
of  the  sun  ? 


56  MISTRESS    HALE    OF   BEVERLY. 

Our  teachers  now  by  witless  youths  are  led  on  and 

beguiled  : 
Woe  to  the  land,  the  Scripture  saith,  whose  ruler  is 

a  child  ? 

"  God  grant  this  dismal  day  be  short  !  Except  help 
soon  arrive, 

To  ruin  these  deluded  ones  will  our  fair  country 
drive. 

If  I  to-morrow  were  accused,  what  further  could  I 
plead 

Than  those  who  died,  whom  neither  judge  nor  min 
ister  would  heed  ? 

"  I  pray  thee,  husband,  enter  not  their  councils  any 

more ! 
My  heart  aches  with  forebodings  !    Do  not  leave  me, 

I  implore  ! 
Yet  if  to  turn  this  curse  aside  my  life  might  but 

avail, 
In  Christ's  name  would  I  yield  it  up,"  said  gentle 

Mistress  Hale. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  dreamed  a  strange  dream 

that  night ; 
He  dreamed  the  tide  came  up,  blood-red,  through 

inlet,  cove,  and  bight, 


MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY.  5/ 

Till  Salem  Village  was  submerged  ;  until  Bass  River 
rose, 

A  threatening  crimson  gulf,  that  yawned  the  ham 
let  to  inclose. 

It  rushed  in*at  the  cottage-doors  whence  women  fled 

and  wept ; 
Close  to  the  little  meeting-house  with  serpent  curves 

it  crept ; 
The  grave-mounds  in  the  burying-ground  were  sunk 

beneath  its  flood  ; 
The  doorstone  of  the  parsonage  was  dashed  with 

spray  of  blood. 

And  on  the  threshold,  praying,  knelt  his  dear  and 

honored  wife, 
As  one  who  would  that  deluge  stay  at  cost  of  her 

own  life.  — 
"  O  save  her  !  save  us,   Christ ! "  the  cry  unlocked 

him  from  his  dream, 
And  at  his  casement  in  the  east  he  saw  the  day-star 

gleam. 

The  minister  that  morning  said,  "  Only  this   once 

I  go, 
Beloved  wife  ;  I  cannot  tell  if  witches  be  or  no  ; 


58  MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY. 

We  on  the   judgment-throne  have   sat  in  place  of 

God  too  long  : 
I   fear  me  much   lest  we  have    done   His    flock   a 

grievous  wrong  : 

"And  this  before  my  brethren  will  I  testify  to-day." 
Around  him  quiet  wooded  isles  and  placid  waters 

lay, 
As  unto  Salem-Side  he  crossed.     He  reached  the 

court-room  small, 
Just  as  a  shrill,  unearthly  shriek,  echoed  from  wall  to 

wall: 

"  Woe  !     Mistress  Hale  tormenteth  me !     She  came 

in  like  a  bird, 
Perched  on  her  husband's  shoulder  !  "     Then  silence 

fell ;  no  word 
Spake  either  judge  or  minister,  while  with  profound 

amaze 
Each  fixed  upon  the  other's  face  his  horror-stricken 

gaze. 

But,  while  the  accuser  writhed  in  wild  contortions 

on  the  floor, 
One  rose  and  said,  "  Let  all  withdraw !  the  court  is 

closed  !  "  no  more  : 


MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY.  59 

For  well  the  land  knew  Mistress  Hale's  rare  love 
liness  and  worth  ; 

Her  virtues  bloomed  like  flowers  of  heaven  along 
the  paths  of  earth. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  went  homeward  riding 
fast; 

His  wife  shrank  back  from  his  strange  look,  affright 
ed  and  aghast. 

"  Dear  wife,  thou  ailest !  Shut  thyself  into  thy 
room  !  "  said  he, 

"  Whoever  comes,  the  latch-string  keep  drawn  in 
from  all  save  me  !  " 

Nor  his  life's  treasure  from  close  guard  did  he  one 
moment  lose, 

Until  across  the  ferry  came  a  messenger  with  news 

That  the  bewitched  ones  acted  now  vain  mummer 
ies  of  woe, 

The  judges  looked  and  wondered  still,  but  all  the 
accused  let  go. 

The  dark  cloud  rolled  from  off  the  land  ;  the  golden 

leaves  dropped  down 
Along  the  winding  wood-paths  of  the  little  sea-side 

town : 


6O  MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY. 

In  Salem  Village  there  was  peace ;  with  witchcraft- 
trials  passed 

The  nightmare-terror  from  the  vexed  New  England 
air  at  last. 


Again  in  natural  tones  men  dared  to  laugh  aloud 

and  speak  ; 
From  Naugus  Head  the  fisher's  shout  rang  back  to 

Jeffrey's  Creek  ; 
The     phantom-soldiery     withdrew,     that      haunted 

Gloucester  shore ; 
The  teamster's  voice  through  Wenham  Woods  broke 

into  psalms  once  more. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  thereafter  sorely  grieved 
That  he  had    inquisition   held  with  counsellors   de> 

ceived ; 
Forsaking   love's    unerring   light,   and  duty's    solid 

ground, 
And  groping  in  the  shadowy  void,  where  truth  is 

never  found. 

Errors  are  almost  trespasses ;  rarely  indeed  we 
know 

How  our  mistakes  hurt  other  hearts,  until  some  ran 
dom  blow 


MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY.  6 1 

Has  well-nigh  broken  our  own.     Alas  !  regret  could 

not  restore 
To   lonely    hearths    the   presences    that   gladdened 

them  before. 

As  with  the  grain  our  fathers  sowed  sprang  up  Old 

England's  weeds, 

So  to  their  lofty  piety  clung  superstition's  seeds. 
Though  tares  grow  with  it,  wheat  is  wheat  :  by  food 

from  heaven  we  live  ; 
Yet  whoso  asks  for  daily  bread,  must  add,  "  Our  sins 

forgive ! " 

Truth  made  transparent  in  a  life,  tried  gold  of  char 
acter, 

Were  Mistress  Hale's ;  and  this  is  all  that  history 
says  of  her  ; 

Their  simple  force,  like  sunlight,  broke  the  hideous 
midnight  spell, 

And  sight  restored  again  to  eyes  obscured  by  films 
of  hell. 

The  minister's  long  fields  are  still  with  dews  of  sum 
mer  wet : 

The  roof  that  sheltered  Mistress  Hale  tradition 
points  to  yet. 


62  MISTRESS    HALE    OF    BEVERLY. 

Green  be  her  memory  ever  kept  all  over  Cape-Ann- 
Side. 

Where  unobtrusive  excellence  awed  back  delusion's 
tide  ! 


SYLVIA. 

SYLVIA  !  "     The  happy  face  looked  up, 
With  love's  unvoiced  reply ; 

Beneath  his,  deep  light  brimmed  her  eye, 

As  a  blue  blossom  fills  its  cup 
From  fulness  of  the  sky. 

Sylvia !     It  was  her  wedding-day  : 
Her  story  seemed  complete  : 
No  voice  had  made  her  name  so  sweet 
Along  the  rustic  maiden's  way,  — 
So  rhythmic  to  repeat. 

The  sylvan,  quaint,  romantic  name 

Had  drifted  to  her  door 
From  the  Atlantic's  eastern  shore, 
Where  some  ancestral  English  dame 

Its  style  Arcadian  wore. 

But  here  it  breathed  of  rose  and  fern, 
And  salt  winds  of  Cape  Ann  ; 


64  SYLVIA. 

Of  timid  wild-flowers  hid  from  man 
Behind  the  gray  cliffs'  barrier  stern, 
In  woods  where  shy  streams  ran. 

And  they  twain  wandered  in  a  wood 
By  vague  sea-whisperings  swept ; 

To  soul,  through  sense,  fine  odors  crept ; 

Within  the  northern  air,  the  mood 
Of  tropic  sunshine  slept. 

'Mid  sassafras  and  wintergreen, 

Elder  and  meadow-rue, 
In  dazzling  bridal-raiment  new,  — 
Glorious  in  exile  as  a  queen,  — 

The  white  magnolia  grew. 

"  Sylvia  !  my  own  magnolia  flower  !  " 
The  proud  young  husband  said  : 

With  creamy  buds  he  crowned  her  head  ; 

And  Sylvia  smiled,  and  blessed  the  hour 
Of  summer  she  was  wed. 

The  years  went  on,  and  Sylvia  grew 

Pale  at  her  work,  and  thin. 
The  pair  no  green  woods  wandered  in  ; 
Cold  through  the  corn  the  north-wind  blew  ; 

Their  bread  was  hard  to  win. 


SYLVIA.  65 

Furrowed  his  brow  became,  and  stern, 

As  his  own  farm-lands  rough. 
He  called  her  "  Wife ! "  in  accents  gruff. 
Why  should  she  for  her  girl-name  yearn  ? 

Was  she  not  his  ?     Enough. 

Enough  !  —  enough  to  fill  the  bound 

Of  woman's  heart  is  he 

Who  leaves  no  heaven-growth  in  her  free  — 
Who  guards  not  for  her  what  he  found 

Her  life  of  life  to  be  ? 

The  tired  wife's  woodland  name  to  her 

Gospels  of  freedom  meant ; 
And  he  with  every  dream  was  blent : 
His  "  Sylvia  !  "  in  her  soul  could  stir 

Long  ripples  of  content. 

But  now  for  dreary  weeks  and  years 

Her  name  he  never  spoke. 
Into  no  storm  her  dull  dawns  broke ; 
Life  was  not  sad  enough  for  tears ; 

Her  heart  more  slowly  broke. 

Sometimes,  deep  in  an  oaken  chest 
With  ample  linen  filled, 
5 


66  SYLVIA. 

The  touch  of  a  dead  blossom  thrilled 
Into  blind  pain  sweet  thoughts  repressed, 
And  in  long  silence  chilled : 

Again  the  rich  magnolia  breathed 
Through  the  New  England  air 

Its  hint  of  Southern  summers  rare  ; 

Again  her  head  the  warm  buds  wreathed ; 
Her  bridegroom  twined  them  there. 

She  shut  the  chest :  she  would  not  think 

Her  life  the  dry  pressed  flower 
She  knew  it  was.     Yet  hour  on  hour 
More  stifling  grew ;  and  lock  and  link 
Crushed  down  with  steadier  power. 

He  boasted  of  her  skilful  hands, 

Her  quick,  unresting  feet. 
"  No  woman  like  my  wife  I  meet : 
On  all  the  Cape  none  understands 

How  to  make  home  so  neat." 

She,  proud  to  be  her  husband's  pride, 
For  bread  received  a  stone. 

Love  lives  not  on  such  bread  alone  ; 

And  hungry  longings  woke  and  cried 
For  better  things  unknown. 


SYLVIA.  67 

Only  by  toil  the  wife  could  keep 

Her  girl-heart's  clamor  down. 
Care's  ashes  all  her  tresses  brown 
Sprinkled  with  gray.  An  early  sleep 

Came  death,  life's  ache  to  drown. 

When,  by  the  blank  around,  he  knew 

What  she  had  been  to  him, 
And,  in  remorseful  guesses  dim, 
Measured  the  joy  she  failed  of,  too, 

Thought  bittered  to  its  brim. 

He  sought  the  sea-washed  woods,  where  tall 

Black  pines  at  noon  made  night : 
The  flowers  stood  still  in  lovely  light  : 
He  seemed  to  hear  his  dead  bride  call 
From  every  blossom  white. 

The  warm-breathed,  fresh  magnolia-bloom 

In  hands  that  never  stirred, 
He  laid,  with  one  beseeching  word,  — 
"  Sylvia!  "  — that  pierced  death's  gathering  gloom  : 
Her  soul  smiled  back  :  she  heard! 


FLOWER  OF   GRASS. 

THE  gracefulness  that  homely  life  takes  on 

When  love  is  at  its  root,  you  saw  in  her ; 

No  color,  but  soft  tints  in  lovely  blur,  — 
A  charm  which  if  so  much  as  named  was  gone, 

Like  light  out  of  a  passing  cloud.     Yet  when 
The  fairer  faces  bloomed  on  you  alone, 

Without  the  softening  of  her  presence,  then 
Into  their  look  had  something  garish  grown,  — 

Some  tenderness  had  faded  from  the  air,  — 
A  loss  so  subtle  and  so  undefined 

The   thought  was   blamed   that   hinted  loss  was 
there. 

The  nature  of  such  souls  is  to  be  blind 

To  self,  and  to  self-seeking  ;  let  them  blend 

Their  life  as  harmony  and  atmosphere 

With  other  lives  ;  let  them  but  have  a  friend 

Whose  merit  they  may  set  off  or  endear, 
And  they  are  gladder  than  in  any  guess 
Or  dream  of  their  own  separate  happiness. 


FLOWER    OF    GRASS.  69 

Earth  were  not  sweet  without  such  souls  as  hers  : 
Even  of  the  rose  and  lily  might  we  tire ; 

She  was  the  flower  of  grass,  that  only  stirs 
To  soothe  the  air,  and  nothing  doth  require 

But  to  forget  itself  in  doing  good,  — 

One  of  life's  lowly,  saintly  multitude. 


MEHETABEL. 

MEHETABEL'S  knitting  lies  loose  in  her  hand  ; 
She  watches  the  gold  of  a  broken  red  brand 
That  glitters  and  flashes, 
And  falls  into  ashes  : 
The  flame  that  illumines  her  face 
From  the  cavernous,  black  fire-place, 
Brings  ever  new  wonders  of  color  and  shade 
To  flicker  about  her,  and  shimmer,  and  fade. 
Does  any  one  guess 
Of  this  maid's  loveliness, 

That  the  lonesome  and  smoky  old  room  seems  to 
bless  ? 

Mehetabel's  mother  calls  out  of  the  gloom, 
From  a  clatter  of  shovel  and  kettle  and  broom, 
From  her  flurry  and  worry 
Of  work-a-day  hurry : 
"  Our  Hetty  sits  there  in  a  dream, 

With  her  needles  half  round  to  the  seam  ; 
With  nothing  to  vex  her,  and  nothing  to  try  her ; 
But  never  will  she  set  the  river  afire." 


MEHETABEL.  71 

And  back  to  the  din 
Of  iron  and  tin, 
One  shadow  flits  out,  while  another  steals  in. 

Mehetabel's  lover  through  new-fallen  snow 
So  softly  has  come  that  the  maid  does  not  know 
He  is  standing  behind  her, 
So  happy  to  find  her 
Alone,  that  he  hardly  can  speak: 
A  whisper,  —  a  flush  on  her  cheek 
More  lovely  than  sunset's  reflection  by  far ;  — 
"  O  Hetty,"  he  murmurs,  "  the  white  evening  stars 
And  the  beacon-lights  swim 
On  the  ocean's  blue  rim, 

But  I  see  your  sweet  eyes,  and  they  make  the  stars 
dim." 

Mehetabel's  wooer  is  stalwart  and  tall  ; 
His  figure  looms  dark  on  the  flame-lighted  wall. 
Outside  in  pale  shadow 
Lie  pasture  and  meadow ; 
Dim  roselight  is  on  the  white  hill ; 
The  sea  glimmers  purple  and  chill :  — 
"  O  Hetty,  be  mine  for  the  calm  and  the  storm  ! 
Though  cold  be  the  wide  world,  my  heart's  love  is 
warm ; 


72  MEHETABEL. 

Knit  me  into  your  dream, 
And  my  rude  life  will  seem 
Like  a  beautiful  landscape  in  June's  golden  beam." 

Mehetabel's  forehead  has  gathered  a  cloud  ; 
A   thousand   new   thoughts    to    her   young   bosom 
crowd  ; 

Her  knitting  drops  lower  ; 
No  lover  can  show  her 
The  way  through  her  mind's  tangled  maze. 
He  reads  no  response  in  her  gaze : 
Her  heart  is  a  snow-drift  where  foot  never  trod ; 
Love's  sun  has  not  wakened  a  bud  on  its  sod  ; 
And  pure  as  the  glow 
Of  the  stars  on  the  snow, 
Are  the  glances  that  up  through  her  long  lashes  go. 

Mehetabel's  future,  an  unexplored  land, 
Spreads  vaguely  before  her,  unpeopled  and  grand, 
Its  wild  paths  wait  lonely 
For  her  footsteps  only  ; 

She  must  weave  out  the  web  of  her  dream, 

Though  flimsy  and  worthless  it  seem 
To  her  mother's  eye,  filled  with  the  dust-motes   of 

care  ; 
Though  it  bar  up  her  path  from  the  heart  that  beats 

there 


MEHETABEL.  73 

In  the  rich,  ruddy  gloom, 
Breathing  odor  and  bloom, 

And  sweet  sense  of  life  through  the  dusk  of  the 
room. 

Mehetabel's  dream,  —  you  will  guess  it  in  vain  ; 

Only  half  to  herself  is  unwound  the  bright  skein. 

She  is  but  a  woman, 

As  gentle  as  human  ; 

Yet  rooted  in  hearts  fresh  as  hers, 

Is  the  hope  that  the  universe  stirs ; 

And   broad   be   her   thought  as   life's  measureless 

zone, 

Or  narrow  as  self  is,  it  still  is  her  own ; 
And  alone  she  may  dare 
What  she  never  would  share 
With  friendship  the  dearest,  or  love  the  most  rare. 

Mehetabel's  answer — it  has  not  been  told. 
To  ashes  has  fallen  the  firelight's  red  gold : 
No  mother,  no  lover, 
For  her,  the  world  over : 
The  work-a-day  jangle  is  still  ; 
An  empty  house  stands  on  the  hill : 
The  rafters  are  cobwebbed,  the  ceiling  is  bare ; 
But  always  a  wraith  haunts  the  carved  oaken  chair : 


74  MEHETABEL. 

And  early  and  late 
There  's  a  creak  at  the  gate, 

And  a  wind  through  the  room,  with  a  soft  sigh  of 
-Wait!" 

Mehetabel  —  Hetty  —  the  dream  of  a  dream, 
The  film  of  a  snow-cloud,  a  star's  broken  beam, 
Were  a  tangible  story 
To  hers  ;  but  the  glory 

Of  ages  dims  down  to  a  spark, 

And  dies  out  at  last  in  the  dark, 
Among  questions  unanswered,  unrealized  dreams  : 
Still  the  beautiful  cheat  of  what  may  be  and  seems, 

Flashes  up  on  night's  brink, 

When  the  live  embers  blink, 
And  the  tales  that  they  mutter  we  dream  that  we 

think. 


FERN-LIFE. 

YES,  life  !  though  it  seems  half  a  death, 

When  the  flowers  of  the  glen 
Bend  over,  with  color  and  breath, 

Till  we  tremble  again  ; 

Till  we  shudder  with  exquisite  pain 

Their  beauty  to  see ; 
While  our  dumb  hope,  through  fibre  and  vein 

Climbs  up  to  be  free. 

No  blossom —  scarce  leaf  —  on  the  ground, 

Vague  fruitage  we  bear,  — 
Point  upward,  reach  fingers  around, 

In  a  tender  despair. 

And  we  pencil  rare  patterns  of  grace 

Men's  footsteps  about  : 
A  charm  in  our  wilderness-place 

They  find  us,  no  doubt. 


76  FERN-LIFE. 

Yet  why  must  this  possible  more 

Forever  be  less  ? 
The  unattained  flower  in  the  spore 

Hints  a  human  distress. 

We  fern-folk  with  grave  whispers  crowd 

The  solemn  wood-gloom, 
Or  weave  over  clods  our  green  cloud 

Of  nebulous  bloom. 

To  fashion  our  life  as  a  flower, 
In  weird  curves  we  reach,  — 

O  man,  with  your  beautiful  power 
Of  presence  and  speech  ! 

Yet  the  heart  of  the  human  must  grope 
Through  its  nobler  despair ; 

For  it  can  but  look  upward,  and  hope 
All  perfection  to  share. 

And  to  dream  of  the  sweetness  we  miss 

Is  not  wholly  in  vain  ; 
For  the  soul  can  be  glad  in  a  bliss 

It  may  never  attain. 


PHEBE. 

PHEBE,  idle  Phebe, 
On  the  door-step  in  the  sun, 

Drops  the  ripe-red  currants 
Through  her  fingers,  one  by  one. 
Heedless  of  her  pleasant  work, 
Rebel  murmurs  rise  and  lurk 
In  the  dimples  of  her  mouth  : 
Winds  come  perfumed  from  the  South  ; 
Musical  with  swarms  of  bees 
Are  the  overhanging  trees  : 
Phebe  does  not  care 
If  the  world  is  fair. 

"Phebe!  Phebe!" 
It  was  but  a  wandering  bird 
That  pronounced  the  word. 

Phebe,  listless  Phebe, 
Leaves  the  currants  on  the  stem, 

Saying,  "  Since  he  comes  not, 
Labor  's  lost  in  picking  them  ;  " 


78  PHEBE. 

Loiters  down  the  alleys  green 
Crowds  of  blushing  pinks  between, 
Followed  by  a  breeze  that  goes 
Whispering  secrets  of  the  rose. 
Does  that  saucy  bird's  keen  eye 
Read  her  heart,  as  he  flits  by  ? 
Syllables  that  mock 
Haunt  the  garden-walk : 

"Phebe!    Phebe  ! " 
Lilac-thickets  hid  among, 
His  refrain  is  sung. 

Phebe,  wistful  Phebe, 
Leans  upon  the  mossy  wall : 
Nothing  stirs  the  stillness 
Save  a  trickling  brooklet's  fall. 
Phebe's  eyes,  against  her  will, 
Seek  the  village  on  the  hill.  — 
"  If  he  knew  he  had  the  power 
So  to  chill  and  change  the  hour,  — 
Knew  the  pain  to  me  it  is 
His  approaching  step  to  miss,  — 
Knew  the  blank,  the  ache, 
His  neglect  can  make,"  — 

"  Phebe !  Phebe  !  " 
From  a  neighboring  forest-roof 
Echoed  the  reproof. 


PHEBE.  79 

Phebe,  troubled  Phebe, 
With  the  brook  still  murmurs  on  ; 

"  If  he  knew  how  sunshine 
Pales  and  thins  when  he  is  gone,  — 
Knew  that  I,  who  seem  so  cold, 
Lock  up  tenderness  untold,  — 
As  the  full  midsummer  glow 
Hides  its  live  roots  under  snow,  — 
In  my  heart's  warm  silence  deep, 
And  for  him  that  hoard  must  keep 
Till  he  brings  the  key,  — 
Would  he  scoff  at  me  ?  " 

"  Phebe !  Phebe ! " 

The  receding  singer's  throat 

Shaped  a  warning  note. 

"  Phebe,  darling  Phebe  !  "  —    , 
Like  a  startled  fawn  she  turns  : 

Over  cheek  and  forehead 
Swift  the  rising  rose-flush  burns. 
"  Sweetheart,  if  you  only  knew  — 

That  my  life's  one  dream  is  —  you  !  " 
"  Hence,  eavesdropper  !  "  though  she  cried, 
Gentle  eyes  her  lips  belied  : 
Lost  in  foolish  lover-chat, 
Picking  currants  they  two  sat, 
Till  a  woodland  bird 


.80  PHEBE. 

Sent  his  good-night  word, 

"Phebe!  Phebe ! " 
In  faint  mockery,  as  he  fled 
Through  the  evening-red. 


IN  THE  AIR. 

THE  scent  of  a  blossom  from  Eden  ! 

The  flower  was  not  given  to  me, 
But  it  freshened  my  spirit  forever, 

As  it  passed,  on  its  way  to  thee  ! 

In  my  soul  is  a  lingering  music  : 
The  song  was  not  meant  for  me, 

But  I  listen,  and  listen,  and  wonder 
To  whom  it  can  lovelier  be. 

The  sounds  and  the  scents  that  float  by  us  - 
They  cannot  tell  whither  they  go  ; 

Yet,  however  it  fails  of  its  errand, 

Love  makes  the  wofld  sweeter,  I  know. 

I  know  that  love  never  is  wasted, 

Nor  truth,  nor  the  breath  of  a  prayer  ; 

And  the  thought  that  goes  forth  as  a  blessing 
Must  live,  as  a  joy  in  the  air. 
6 


BESSIE  AND   RUTH. 

ABOVE  them,  the  meadow-lark's  call 

Rose,  piercing  the  tremulous  ether, 
As  they  clambered  across  the  stone  wall, 
And  came  through  the  lane  together : 
Two  girls,  in  their  gowns  of  blue, 
With  their  milking-pails,  came  through 
Red  waves  of  the  wind-shaken  clover : 

And  the  bloom  of  the  grass  dropped  dew, 
And  the  dawn  into  sunrise  grew, 
As  they  loitered  talking  it  over,  — 
Talking  a  love-secret  over. 

Their  secret ;  they  thought  it  was  hid, 

But  the  wren  and  the  bob-o'-link  knew  it ; 
And  a  wood-thrush,  the  alders  amid, 
To  his  mate  in  a  flute-echo  threw  it : 
They  talked  of  two  lads  on  the  sea ; 
They  talked  of  two  weddings  to  be  ; 
And  a  rose-colored  future  each  wove  her  ;  — 
Two  hearts  that  were  fettered,  yet  free,  — 


BESSIE    AND    RUTH.  83 

In  the  shade  of  a  green-golden  tree 
As  they  lingered,  talking  it  over,  — 
Talking  the  old  story  over. 

They  climbed  the  bleak  slopes  of  a  cliff 

Made  warm  by  the  footsteps  of  summer  ; 
And  each  asked  the  solemn  waves  if 

They  had  heard  of  a  laggard  home-comer. 
Mist-flushed  with  the  heats  of  July, 
The  white,  silent  vessels  went  by ; 
But  neither  saw  sign  of  her  rover  : 

And  the  deeps  of  Ruth's  dreamy  blue  eye 
Were  ruffled  by  Bessie's  long  sigh, 
While  the  slow  waves  murmured  it  over,  — 
Murmured  the  mystery  over. 

They  parted  at  dusk  on  the  beach  ; 

The  third  moon  of  harvest  was  waning  : 
A  yearning  was  in  their  low  speech, 
As  of  billow  to  billow  complaining. 
To  Bessie,  the  deep  faith  of  Ruth 
Lapsed  sad  as  the  ebb-tide  of  youth  ; 
And  the  stars  in  the  sky-gulf  above  her 

Sank  chill  as  her  dumb  thoughts,  in  sooth; 
For  she  doubted  her  own  maiden-truth, 
Dreaming  another  love  over,  — 

Wondering,  dreaming  it  over. 


84  BESSIE    AND    RUTH. 

The  lark's  note  pierced  heaven  again  ; 

And  again,  in  the  June-lighted  weather, 
The  footsteps  of  two  in  the  lane, 
Kept  time  to  a  love-tune  together. 
The  gossip  of  bluebird  and  thrush 
Slid  lightly  from  tree-top  to  bush, 
And  shook  with  faint  laughter  the  clover : 
And  the  sweet-brier  bent  with  a  blush 
That  warned  the  pert  blackbird  to  hush, 
While  Bessie  went  by  with  her  lover, 
Talking  her  second  love  over. 

Ruth  came  through  the  brown  fields  alone 
To  the  sea,  veiled  in  gray  of  November  : 
Dead  leaves  rustled  past  ;  with  a  moan 
Strove  the  wind  to  revive  autumn's  ember. 
But  the  youth-light  shone  on  in  her  eye, 
And  a  joy  in  her  heart,  sweet  and  high, 
Sang  clearer  than  curlew  or  plover. 

There  is  hope  that  is  never  put  by ! 
There  is  love  that  refuses  to  die  ! 
And  the  old  sea  this  burden  croons  over 
Forever,  over  and  over  ! 


GOLDEN    DAISIES. 

DISK  of  bronze  and  ray  of  gold 

Glimmering  through  the  meadow  grasses, 
Burn  less  proudly  !   for,  behold, 

Down  the  field  my  princess  passes. 
Hardly  should  I  hold  you  fair  — 

Golden,  gay,  midsummer  daisies, 
But  for  her,  the  maiden  rare, 

Who,  amid  your  starry  mazes, 

Makes  you  splendid  with  her  praises. 

Soft  brown  tresses,  eyes  of  blue, 

Is  a  heart  beneath  you  waking  ? 
Maiden,  here  's  a  heart  for  you, 

Fain  were  worthier  of  your  taking. 
Golden  daisies,  you  have  met 

In  a  fairy  ring  around  her  — 
Does  she  hear  my  footfall  yet, 

Where,  enchanted,  you  have  bound  her  ? 

Hold  her  charmed,  till  we  have  crowned  her 


86  GOLDEN    DAISIES. 

Softly,  blossoms,  while  she  stands 
In  the  sunny  stillness  dreaming,  — 

Softly  hither,  to  my  hands  — 

Wreathe  for  her  a  circlet  gleaming ! 

Lights  her  face  a  shy,  swift  smile  ; 
Flower-like  head  she  slowly  raises  :  - 

Was  her  heart  mine,  all  the  while  ? 
Blossoms,  royal  with  her  praises, 
Crown  my  queen,  ye  golden  daisies  ! 


BARBERRYING. 

YEARS  ago,  years  ago, 
Years  that  seem  to  me  like  days,  — 
Through  the  Indian  summer  haze, 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
I  went  once  with  sisters  three ; 
Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity. 

Country  girls,  neighbors  mine, 
From  the  red  house  by  the  mill ; 
Through  the  lane,  across  the  hill, 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
Up  the  steep  woods  by  the  sea, 
We  went  rambling  pleasantly. 

Winding  on,  climbing  on, 
Wandered  Hope  through  brake  and  bush  ; 
Faith's  low  singing  charmed  the  hush  ; 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
Under  oak  and  maple  tree, 
Still  and  sweet  walked  Charity. 


88  BARBERRYING. 

Gay  were  Hope's  starry  eyes 
As  the  sparkling  Pleiads  seven  ; 
Faith's  were  blue  as  bluest  heaven  ; 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
As  we  walked,  I  could  not  see 
Downcast  orbs  of  Charity. 

Up  the  hill,  far  we  strayed  ; 
Thickets  of  the  red  fruit  glowed, 
Veiling  gracefully  the  road  ; 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
Over  loose  walls  clambered  we, 
Happy  as  we  well  could  be. 

Apron-full,  baskets-full, 
Gathered  Charity  and  I  ; 
Faith  and  Hope  went  laughing  by, 

Barberrying,  barberrying ; 
While  beneath  a  reddening  tree, 
We  sat  resting  silently. 

Golden-rod,  asters  dim, 
Lit  the  steps  of  Faith  and  Hope 
Up  the  pathless  rocky  slope  ; 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
Glimpses  of  the  far-off  sea 
Came  to  Charity  and  me. 


BARBERRYING.  89 

Up  the  hill,  o'er  the  hill, 
Like  two  blown  leaves  of  a  flower, 
Fluttered  they,  a  light  half  hour, 

Barberrying,  barberrying  : 
Said  I,  "  Climb  life's  hill  with  me  ; 
Climb  and  rest,  sweet  Charity  !  " 

Did  they  move,  parted  lips, 
Red  as  ripest  of  our  spoil  ? 
Since  that  day  of  mirth  and  toil, 

Barberrying,  barberrying, 
Dearest  of  the  sisters  three, 
Charity  abides  with  me. 


A  GAMBREL  ROOF. 

How  pleasant !     This  old  house  looks  down 
Upon  a  shady  little  town, 
Whose  great  good  luck  has  been  to  stay 
Just  outside  of  the  modern  way 

Of  tiresome  strut  and  show ; 
The  elm-trees  overhead  have  seen 
Two  hundred  new-born  summers  green 
Up  to  their  tops  for  sunshine  climb  ; 
And,  since  the  old  colonial  time, 

The  road  has  wound  just  so  ; 

This  way  through  Salem  Village  ;  that, 
Along  the  Plains  (the  place  is  flat, 
And  names  itself  so)  ;  toward  the  tide 
Of  sea-fed  creeks,  past  Ryal-Side, 

And  round  by  Folly  Hill, 
Whose  sunken  cellar  now  is  all 
Memorial  of  a  stately  hall 
Where  yule-logs  roared  and  red  wine  flowed  ; 
From  its  lost  garden  to  the  road 

A  gold  bloom  trickles  still : 


A    GAMBREL    ROOF. 

Woad-waxen  gold  —  a  foreign  weed, 
Spoiling  the  fields  for  useful  seed, 
Yet  something  to  recall  the  day 
When  we  were  under  royal  sway, 

And  paid  our  taxes  well. 
And  from  that  memory,  as  a  thread, 
The  shuttle  of  my  rhyme  is  fed  ; 
Upon  this  ancient  gambrel  roof 
The  warp  was  spun  ;  behold  the  woof, 

And  all  there  is  to  tell. 

About  a  hundred  years  ago, 
When  Danvers  roadsides  were  aglow 
With  cardinal  flowers  and  golden- rod, 
Months  ere  in  Lexington  the  sod 

Was  dewed  with  soldiers'  blood ; 
Though  warlike  rumors  filled  the  air, 
And  red  coats  loitered  here-and-there, 
Eye-sores  to  every  yeoman  free,  — 
When  from  the  White  Hills  to  the  sea 

Swelled  Revolution's  bud  ; 

In  this  old  house,  even  then  not  new, 
A  Continental  Colonel  true 
Dwelt,  with  a  blithe  and  wilful  wife, 
The  sparkle  on  his  cup  of  life  ; 
A  man  of  sober  mood, 


A    GAMBREL    ROOF. 

He  felt  the  strife  before  it  came, 
Within  him,  like  a  welding  flame, 
That  nerve  and  sinew  changed  to  steel  ; 
And,  at  the  opening  cannon  peal, 
Ready  for  fight  he  stood. 

Cheap  was  the  draught,  beyond  a  doubt, 
The  mother  country  served  us  out  ; 
And  many  a  housewife  raised  a  wail, 
Hearing  of  fragrant  chest  and  bale 

To  thirstless  mermaids  poured. 
And  Mistress  Audrey's  case  was  hard, 
When  her  tall  Colonel  down  the  yard 
Called,  "  Wife,  be  sure  you  drink  no  tea ! 
For  best  Imperial,  prime  Bohea, 

Were  in  her  cupboard  stored  ; 

Young  Hyson,  too,  the  finest  brand  ; 
And  here  the  good  wife  made  a  stand  : 
:  Now,  Colonel,  well  enough  you  know 
Our  tea  was  paid  for  long  ago, 

Before  this  cargo  came, 
With  threepence  duty  on  the  pound  ; 
It  won't  be  wasted,  I  '11  be  bound  ! 
I  've  asked  a  friend  or  two  to  sup, 
And  not  to  offer  them  a  cup 

Would  be  a  stingy  shame." 


A    GAMBREL    ROOF.  93 

Into  his  face  the  quick  blood  flew : 
"  Wife,  I  have  promised,  so  must  you, 

None  shall  drink  tea  inside  my  house ; 

Your  gossips  elsewhere  must  carouse  :"  — 

The  lady  curtsied  low  : 
"  Husband,  your  word  is  law,"  she  said  ; 

But  archly  turned  her  well-set  head 

With  roguish  poise  toward  this  old  roof, 

Soon  as  she  heard  his  martial  hoof 
Along  the  highway  go. 

"  Late  dusk  will  fall  ere  he  comes  back  : 
Quick,  Dill  !  "     Whereat  a  figure  black, 
A  strange,  grotesque,  swift  shadow  made 
Between  the  silent  elm-trees'  shade, 

Where  all  was  grass  and  sun  : 
Then  maid  and  mistress  passed  within 
The  pantry,  hung  with  glittering  tin, 
Tiptoeing  every  sanded  floor, 
Till,  at  the  china-closet  door, 
They  saw  their  work  begun. 

The  egg-shell  porcelain,  crystal-fine, 
Was  polished  to  its  utmost  shine ; 
The  silver  teaspoons  gleamed  as  bright, 
Upon  the  damask  napkin  white  ; 
And  many  a  knowing  smile, 


94  A    GAMBREL    ROOF. 

Flashed  from  the  fair  face  to  the  black, 
Across  the  kitchen  chimney-back. 
While  syllabubs  and  custards  grew 
To  comely  shape  betwixt  the  two, 
And  cakes,  a  toothsome  pile. 

But  lightly  dined  the  dame  that  day ; 
Her  guests,  in  Sunday-best  array, 
Came,  and  not  one  arrived  too  soon, 
In  the  first  slant  of  afternoon; 

An  hour  or  two  they  sat, 
In  the  low-studded  western  room, 
Where  hollyhocks  threw  rosy  bloom 
On  sampler  framed,  and  quaint  Dutch  tile  ; 
They  knit ;  they  sewed  long  seams  ;  the  while 

Chatting  of  this  and  that ;  — 

Of  horrors  scarcely  died  away 
From  memory  of  the  heads  grown  gray 
On  neighboring  farms  ;  how  wizard  John 
And  Indian  Tituba  went  on, 

When  sorcerers  were  believed  ; 
How  Parson  Parris  tried  to  make 
Poor  Mary  Sibley's  conjuring  cake 
The  leaven  of  that  black  witchcraft  curse, 
That  grew  and  spread,  from  bad  to  worse, 

And  even  the  elect  deceived  ; 


A   GAMBREL    ROOF.  95 

Of  apparitions  at  Cape  Ann, 
And  spectral  fights  —  the  story  ran  ; 
Of  pirate  gold  in  Saugus'  caves  ; 
Sea-serpents  off  Nahant,  the  waves 

Lashing  with  fearsome  trail  ; 
Of  armies  flashing  in  the  air 
Auroral  swords  ;  prefiguring  there 
Some  dreadful  conflict,  bloodshed,  death  :  — 
And  needles  stopped,  and  well-nigh  breath, 

As  eerier  grew  the  tale. 

Dame  Audrey  said  :  "  The  sun  gets  low  ; 
Good  neighbors  mine,  before  you  go, 
Come  to  the  house-top,  pray,  with  me  ! 
A  goodly  prospect  you  shall  see, 

I  promise,  spread  around. 
If  we  must  part  ere  day  decline, 
And  if  no  hospitable  sign 
Appear,  of  China's  cheering  drink, 
Not  niggardly  your  hostess  think  ! 

We  all  are  patriots  sound." 

They  followed  her  with  puzzled  air  ; 
But  saw,  upon  the  topmost  stair, 
Out  on  the  railed  roof,  dark-faced  Dill 
Guarding  the  supper-board,  as  still 
As  solid  ebony. 


9J  A    GAMBREL    ROOF. 

"  A  goodly  prospect,  as  I  said, 
You  here  may  see  before  you  spread  : 
Upon  a  house  is  not  within  it ; 
But  now  we  must  not  waste  a  minute ; 
Neighbors,  sit  down  to  tea  !  " 

How  Madam  then  her  ruse  explained, 
What  mirth  arose  as  sunset  waned, 
In  the  close  covert  of  these  trees, 
No  leaf  told  the  reporter  breeze  ; 

But  when  the  twilight  fell, 
And  hoof-beats  rang  down  Salem  road, 
And  up  the  yard  the  Colonel  strode, 
No  soul  beside  the  dame  and  Dill 
Stirred  in  the  mansion  dim  and  still ; 

The  game  was  played  out  well. 

Let  whoso  chooses  settle  blame 
Betwixt  the  Colonel  and  his  dame, 
Or  dame  and  country.     That  the  view 
Is  from  this  housetop  fine,  is  true, 

And  needs  but  visual  proof : 
And  if  a  woman's  will  found  way 
Years  since,  up  here,  its  pranks  to  play, 
Under  Mansards  the  sport  goes  on.  — 
Moral  of  all  here  said  or  done  : 

I  like  a  gambrel  roof. 


GOODY   GRUNSELL'S    HOUSE. 

A  WEARY  old  face,  beneath  a  black  mutch  ; 

Like  a  flame  in  a  cavern  her  eye, 

Betwixt  craggy  forehead  and  cheek-bone  high  ; 
Her  long,  lean  fingers  hurried  to  clutch 
A  something  concealed  in  her  rusty  cloak, 
As  a  step  on  the  turf  the  stillness  broke  ; 

While  a  sound  —  was  it  curse  or  sigh  ?  — 

Smote  the  ear  of  the  passer-by. 

A  dreary  old  house,  on  a  headland  slope, 

Against  the  gray  of  the  sea. 

Where  garden  and  orchard  used  to  be, 
Witch-grass  and  nettle  and  rag-weed  grope,  — 
Paupers  that  eat  the  earth's  riches  out,  — 
Nightshade  and  henbane  are  lurking  about, 

Like  demons  that  enter  in 

When  a  soul  has  run  waste  to  sin. 

The  house  looked  wretched  and  woe-begone  ; 

Its  desolate  windows  wept 
7 


HOUSE. 

With  a  dew  that  forever  dripped  and  crept 
From  the  moss-grown  eaves  ;  and  ever  anon 
Some  idle  wind,  with  a  passing  slap, 
Made  rickety  shutter  or  shingle  flap 

As  who  with  a  jeer  should  say, 
"  Why  does  the  old  crone  stay  ? " 

Goody  Grunsell's  house  —  it  was  all  her  own  ; 
There  was  no  one  living  to  chide, 

Though  she  tore  every  rib  from  its  skeleton  side 

To  kindle  a  fire  when  she  sat  alone 

With  the  ghosts  that  had  leave  to  go  out  and  in, 

Through  crevice  and  rent,  to  the  endless  din 
Of  winds  that  muttered  and  moaned, 
Of  waves  that  wild  ditties  droned.  — 

And  this  was  the  only  booty  she  hid 

Under  her  threadbare  cloak,  — 
A  strip  of  worn  and  weather-stained  oak  : 
Then  in  to  her  lonesome  hearth  she  slid  : 
And,  inch  by  inch,  as  the  cold  years  sped, 
She  was  burning  the  old  house  over  her  head  ; 
Why  not  —  when  each  separate  room 
Held  more  than  a  lifetime's  gloom  ? 

Goody  Grunsell's  house  —  not  a  memory  glad 
Illumined  bare  ceiling  or  wall ; 


GOODY  GRUNSELL  S  HOUSE.          99 

But  cruel  shadows  would  sometimes  fall 
On  the  floor  ;  and  faces  eerie  and  sad 
At  dusk  would  peer  in  at  the  broken  pane, 
While  ghostly  steps  pattered  through  the  rain, 

Sending  the  blood  with  a  start 

To  her  empty,  shriveled  heart. 

For  she  had  not  been  a  forbearing  wife, 

Mor  a  loyal  husband's  mate  ; 
The  twain  had  been  one  but  in  fear  and  hate  ; 
And  the  horror  of  that  inverted  life 
Had  not  spent  itself  on  their  souls  alone  : 
From  the  bitter  root  evil  buds  had  blown ; 
There  were  births  that  blighted  grew, 
And  died,  —  and  no  gladness  knew. 

The  house  unto  nobody  home  had  been, 

But  a  lair  of  pain  and  shame  : 
Could  any  its  withered  mistress  blame, 
Who  sought  from  its  embers  a  spark  to  win, 
A  warmth  for  the  body,  to  soul  refused  ? 
Such  questioning  ran  through  her  thoughts  con 
fused, 

As  she  slipped  with  her  spoil  from  sight.  — 

Could  the  dead  assert  their  right  ? 

The  splintered  board,  like  a  dagger's  blade, 
Goody  Grunsell  cowering  hid, 


100  GOODY   GRUNSELLS    HOUSE. 

As  if  the  house  had  a  voice  that  chid, 
When  wound  after  wound  in  its  side  she  made  ; 
As  if  the  wraiths  of  her  children  cried 
From  their  graves,  to  denounce  her  a  homicide  ; 
While  the  sea,  up  the  weedy  path, 
Groaned,  spuming  in  wordless  wrath. 

The  house,  with  its  pitiful,  haunted  look,  — 

Old  Goody,  more  piteous  still, 
Angry  and  sad,  as  the  night  fell  chill,  — 
They  are  pictures  out  of  a  long-lost  book  :  — 
But  the  windows  of  many  a  human  face 
Show  tenants  that  burn  their  own  dwelling-place ; 
And  spectre  and  fiend  will  roam 
Through  the  heart  which  is  not  love's  home. 


THE    FOG-BELL. 

THE  vessels  are  sunk  in  the  mist ; 

And  hist  ! 
Through  the  veil  of  the  air 

Throbs  a  sound, 
Like  a  wail  of  despair, 
That  dies  into  stillness  profound. 

All  muffled  in  gray  is  the  sea  ; 

Not  a  tree 
Sees  its  neighbor  beside 

Or  before  ; 

And  across  the  blank  tide, 
Hark  !  that  sob  of  an  echo  once  more ! 

'T  is  the  fog-bell's  imploring,  wild  knell ! 

It  is  well 
For  the  sailors  who  hear  ; 

But  its  toll 

Thrills  the  night  with  a  fear  — 
To  what  doom  drifts  the  rudderless  soul ! 


OLD  MADELINE. 

OVER  a  crumpled  paper  in  her  hand 

Old  Madeline  wept. 

Dimly  the  candle  flickered  on  the  stand  ; 
Up  the  dark  chimney  flared  a  smouldering  brand ; 

The  whole  house  slept. 

And  Madeline's  care  had  made  that  sleeping  sweet; 

For  all  day  long 

She  pattered  to  and  fro  with  light,  quick  feet  ; 
And  while  her  broom  made  nook  and  corner  neat 

She  hummed  a  song : 

A  broken  singing,  thin  and  pitiful,  — 

And  yet  in  tune 

With  all  that  makes  great  lyrics  musical. 
It  stopped  the  children,  hurrying  out  of  school, 

At  night  or  noon. 

Now  a  quaint  hymn  ;  now  "  Jamie  on  the  sea  ;  " 
An  anthem  snatch 


OLD    MADELINE.  IO3 

That  sung  in  far  Thanksgivings  used  to  be, 
In  savage  days  before  the  land  was  free ; 
A  glee  or  catch  ; 

No  matter  what  —  the  children  gathered  near, 

For  all  and  each  :  — 

Pathos  of  moaning  winds  through  branches  sere,  — 
Mirth  as  of  waves  that  break  in  sunset  clear 

On  some  lone  beach. 

To-night  she  sat  in  silence.     Every  night, 

For  years  and  years, 

Here  had  she  cowered  by  the  late  candle-light 
Over  the  worn-out  print,  and  blurred  her  sight, 

Reading  through  tears. 

To  one  name,  written  on  the  list  of  "  Dead," 

Her  tired  eyes  grew. 

Fallen  in  the  march,  pursuing  foes  that  fled, 
Somewhere  beside  the  road  he  lay,  they  said  ; 

His  grave  none  knew. 

The  tattered  newspaper  spread  out  to  her 

A  picture  wide. 

Among  vast  alien  hills  the  battle's  stir  ; 
A  death-bed  where  none  came  to  minister 

To  him  who  died. 


IO4  OLD    MADELINE. 

A  spot  of  green  beside  a  mountain  road, 

By  warm  winds  kissed, 
Where     strange    large    roses    opened   hearts    that 

glowed, 
And  over  him  their  blood-red  petals  strewed 

Whom  love  had  missed. 

For  sweet  maid  Madeline  had  never  guessed 

Ralph  cared  for  her 

Save  as  a  friend  ;  while  vainly  he  sought  rest, 
Sure  that  no  tender  feeling  in  her  breast 

For  him  would  stir. 

And  still  his  image  buried  she  within, 

Beneath  her  thought, 

Wondering  what  happier  girl  his  heart  would  win. 
She  drowned  her  vexing  dreams  in  work-day  din ; 

The  war  he  sought. 

And  after  he  had  fallen,  a  comrade  came, 

And  told  her  how 

Upon  the  battle-eve  he  breathed  her  name : 
Then   Madeline  said  :    "  None  else  my  hand  shall 
claim," — 

And  kept  her  vow. 

With  her  no  lightest  wooing  ever  sped. 
No  man  might  press 


OLD    MADELINE.  IO5 

A  soothing  hand  upon  her  weary  head, 
Or  whisper  comfort  to  the  heart  that  bled 
With  loneliness. 

For  Madeline  said  :  "  Ralph  surely  waits  for  me 

Beyond  Death's  gate  ; 
And  I  might  miss  him  through  eternity, 
By  joining  fates  with  one  less  loved  than  he  : 

I  too  can  wait. 

"  I  could  not  bear  another  lover's  kiss, 

Because  I  feel 

That  somewhere,  from  the  heights  of  heavenly  bliss 
His  spirit  hither  yearns,  as  mine  to  his, 

Forever  leal." 

This  to  her  silent  heart  alone  she  said, 

Hushing  its  moan, 

That  yet  into  her  merriest  singing  strayed  ; 
While  all  declared,  "  A  cheerf uler  old  maid 

Was  never  known." 

Nor  ever  was  there.     As  her  poor  song  worth 

And  witchery  stole 

From  muffled  minors,  in  them  had  its  birth, 
Out  of  crushed  joy  sprang  kindliness  and  mirth  ; 

Her  life  was  whole  :  — 


IO6  OLD    MADELINE. 

Whole,  though  it  seemed  a  fragment,  rent  apart 

From  its  true  end. 
Downward     from    deathless    clinging   reached   her 

heart, 
Readier  to  comfort  for  its  hidden  smart ; 

To  all  a  friend. 

None  saw  her  tears  save  God  and  her  lost  love : 

Surely  that  dew 

Kept  memory  blossoming  fresh  in  fields  above  ; 
Against  death's  bars  he  must  have  felt  the  dove 

That  fluttering  flew. 

So  lived  she  faithful,  an  unwedded  bride. 

His  hand  of  snow 

Age  laid  in  blessing  on  her  head.     She  died. 
Do  Ralph  and  Madeline  now  walk  side  by  side  ? 

The  angels  know. 


THEY   SAID. 

THEY  said  of  her,  "  She  never  can  have  felt 
The  sorrows  that  our  deeper  natures  feel : " 

They  said,  "  Her  placid  lips  have  never  spelt 
Hard  lessons  taught  by  Pain  :  her  eyes  reveal 
No  passionate  yearning,  no  perplexed  appeal 

To  other  eyes.     Life  and  her  heart  have  dealt 

With  her  but  lightly."  —  When  the  Pilgrims  dwelt 
First  on  these  shores,  lest  savage  hands  should 
steal 

To  precious  graves  with  desecrating  tread, 

The  burial-field  was  with  the  ploughshare  crossed, 
And  there  the  maize  her  silken  tresses  tossed. 

With  thanks  those  Pilgrims  ate  their  bitter  bread, 
While  peaceful  harvests  hid  what  they  had  lost. 

—  What  if  her  smiles  concealed  from  you  her  dead  ? 


GOLDEN-ROD. 

MIDSUMMER  music  in  the  grass  — 

The  cricket  and  the  grasshopper ; 
White  daisies  and  red  clover  pass ; 

The  caterpillar  trails  her  fur 
After  the  languid  butterfly  ; 

But  green  and  spring-like  is  the  sod 
Where  autumn's  earliest  lamps  I  spy  — 

The  tapers  of  the  golden-rod. 

This  flower  is  fuller  of  the  sun 

Than  any  our  pale  North  can  show ; 
It  has  the  heart  of  August  won, 

And  scatters  wide  the  warmth  and  glow 
Kindled  at  summer's  mid-noon  blaze, 

Where  gentians  of  September  bloom 
Along  October's  leaf-strewn  ways, 

And  through  November's  paths  of  gloom. 

As  lavish  of  its  golden  light 

As  sunshine's  self,  this  blossom  is ; 


GOLDEN-ROD.  IO9 

Its  starry  chandeliers  burn  bright 
All  day  ;  and  have  you  noted  this  — 

A  perfect  sun  in  every  flower  ? 

Ten  thousand  thousand  fairy  suns, 

Raying  from  new  disks  hour  by  hour, 

•    As  up  the  stalk  the  life-flash  runs  ? 

A  worthless  plant  —  a  flaunting  weed  ! 

Abundant  splendors  are  too  cheap." 
Neighbor,  not  so  !  unless,  indeed, 

You  would  from  heaven  the  sunsets  sweep, 
And  count  as  mean  the  common  day  : 

Meseems  the  world  has  not  so  much 
Superfluous  beauty,  that  we  may 

Blight  anything  with  scornful  touch. 

In  times  long  past,  the  harebell's  grace 

I  blent  with  this  resplendent  spray  ; 
And  one  I  loved  would  lean  her  face 

Toward  their  contrasted  hues,  and  say, 
'  The  sun-like  gold,  the  heavenly  blue, 

I  know  not  which  delights  me  most,"  — 
Sacred  are  both,  dear  heart,  to  you  : 

They  lit  your  feet  from  earth's  dim  coast. 

The  swinging  harebell  faintly  tolled 
Upon  the  still  autumnal  air ; 


HO  GOLDEN-ROD. 

The  golden-rod  bent  down  to  hold 
Her  rows  of  funeral-torches  there. 

All  blossoms,  sweet !  to  you  were  dear  ; 
No  homeliest  weed  you  counted  vile  : 

The  flower  I  choose,  of  all  the  year, 
Is  this,  that  last  beheld  your  smile. 

Herald  of  autumn's  reign,  it  sets 

Gay  bonfires  blazing  round  the  fields  : 
Rich  autumn  pays  in  gold  his  debts 

For  tenancy  that  summer  yields. 
Beauty's  slow  harvest  now  comes  in  ; 

New  promise  with  fulfilment  won  : 
The  heart's  vast  hope  does  but  begin, 

Filled  with  ripe  seeds  of  sweetness  gone. 

Because  its  myriad  glimmering  plumes 

Like  a  great  army's  stir  and  wave ; 
Because  its  gold  in  billows  blooms, 

The  poor  man's  barren  walks  to  lave  ; 
Because  its  sun-shaped  blossoms  show 

How  souls  receive  the  light  of  God, 
And  unto  earth  give  back  that  glow  — 

I  thank  Him  for  the  golden-rod. 


AT   HER   BEDSIDE. 

FLY,  little  bird,  fly 

Close  to  the  sick  woman's  bed  ! 
Tell  her  of  streams  running  by, 

Of  branches  that  wave  overhead  : 
When  shut  is  the  weary  one's  eye, 

Wake  her  soul  to  your  music,  instead ! 

Sing,  little  bird,  sing 

Through  the  thin  cloud  of  her  dreams  ! 
Breezes  and  wild-flowers  bring, 

Till  the  heart  of  the  slumberer  seems 
To  the  beautiful  woods  taking  wing,  — 

To  the  glen  where  the  rivulet  gleams. 

Wait,  little  bird,  wait 

Till  her  sorrowful  burden  of  pain 
Is  buried  at  sleep's  summer  gate :  — 

Unwind  from  the  quiet  some  strain, 
A  lovely  new  world  to  create  ; 

Then  sing  her  to  health  again  ! 


OVER  THE   HILL. 

THERE  's  a  face  I  must  ever  remember, 

Though  I  may  not  behold  it  again 
Through  the  golden  haze  of  September, 

Or  the  dreary  November  rain,  — 
A  face  that  was  joyous  and  tender 
As  the  sea  in  its  summer  splendor, 

And  a  smile  that  was  clear  and  still 

As  the  sunrise  over  the  hill. 

There  were  footsteps  that  flew  to  meet  me, 

Crushing  the  moss  and  the  fern  ; 
There  were  eyes  that  brightened  to  greet  me, 

When  others  were  cold  and  stern. 
We  crossed,  in  the  sunny  weather, 
The  blossoming  fields  together, 

And  rested  beside  the  rill, 

Coming  over  the  hill. 

Now  the  hill  is  barren  and  lonely, 
And  the  sea  is  moaning  beyond, 


OVER    THE    HILL.  113 

And  the  bleak,  bleak  winds  answer  only 

To  my  heart's  cry,  wild  and  fond. 
Pale  asters,  with  dew-drops  laden, 
Do  you  weep  fcr  the  blue-eyed  maiden 
Who  sleeps  in  the  graveyard  chill,  — 
In  the  graveyard  over  the  hill  ? 

No  longer  the  sea  wears  the  glory 

That  lighted  its  billows  of  old  : 
The  moss  and  the  fern  heard  a  story 

That  never  again  can  be  told. 
But  I  only  seem  to  outlive  her  : 
Green  heights  lie  beyond  the  dark  river  ; 

There  my  soul  to  her  step  will  thrill, 

Coming  over  the  hill. 


WORKMATES. 

FACE  and  figure  of  a  maiden, 
Set  in  memory's  antique  gold  : 

In  the  eyelids'  droop,  thought-laden, 
In  the  dark  hair's  shining  fold 

Over  the  wide,  blue-veined  brow, 

One  I  love  is  with  me  now. 

Side  by  side  we  work  together, 
'Mid  the  whirring  of  the  wheels  ; 

Side  by  side  we  wonder  whether 
Each  the  other's  longing  feels 

To  throw  open  her  heart's  door, 

With  a  "  Welcome,  evermore  !  " 

Suddenly  the  seals  are  broken  : 
How  it  came,  we  cannot  tell,  — 

Eyes  have  met,  and  lips  have  spoken 
We  have  known  each  other  well, 

Ages  since,  in  some  fair  earth, 

Playmates  ere  our  mortal  birth. 


WORKMATES.  115 

Noisy  wheels  break  into  singing, 

Bird-like  thoughts  with  thoughts  ascend, 

Into  the  free  air  upspringing : 
Oh  the  sweetness  of  a  friend  ! 

What  if  earth  is  cold  and  wide  ? 

Here  we  two  are,  side  by  side. 

Out  into  the  summer  gazing 

From  the  windows  of  the  mill,  — 

Running  river  —  cattle  grazing  — 
White  clouds  on  the  dark-blue  hill,  — 

Did  we  murmur  then,  shut  in 

W7ith  a  hundred  girls,  to  spin  ? 

No  :  for  discontent  were  treason, 
When  the  breath  of  all  the  flowers, 

And  the  soul  of  the  bright  season 
Entering,  made  their  gladness  ours  : 

Of  the  summer  we  were  part ; 

Nature  gave  us  her  whole  heart. 

When  the  slow  day  dragged,  we  chanted, 

Each  to  each,  some  holy  hymn, 
Till  the  sunset  toward  us  slanted 

As  in  old  cathedrals  dim, 
Or  a  cloistered  forest-aisle, 
Wakening:  in  us  smile  for  smile. 


Il6  WORKMATES. 

Daily  bread  our  hands  were  winning,  — 
Winning  more  than  bread  alone  ; 

Unseen  fingers,  with  us  spinning, 
Twined  all  life  into  our  own,  — 

Knit  our  being's  fibres  fast 

Into  unknown  futures  vast. 

And  we  touched  the  flying  spindles, 

As  if  so  we  struck  a  note 
Unto  which  the  whole  world  kindles  ;  — 

Tidal  harmonies,  that  float 
Into  chords  on  earth  unheard  — 
Mystic  chant  of  Work  and  Word. 

Work !  it  thrilled  new  meanings  through  us 

From  creation's  undersong ; 
Unto  all  great  souls  it  drew  us, 

Men  heroic,  angels  strong : 
Firm  our  little  thread  spun  we 
For  the  web  of  Destiny. 

Time  has  led  us  onward  slowly, 
O  my  low-browed  maiden  dear, 

Into  duties  new  and  holy, 

Widening  labors,  year  by  year  : 

Good  it  is  for  us,  in  sooth, 

That  we  bore  the  yoke  in  youth. 


WORKMATES.  1 1/ 

Good  it  is  in  the  beginning, 

Toil  for  our  true  friend  to  know, 

Place  in  God's  grand  purpose  winning, — 
Deep  into  His  life  to  grow, 

Saying  by  our  work,  as  He, 

Unto  light  and  order,  "  Be  !  " 

Good  and  sweet  the  friendship  given 
To  our  girlish  working-days, — 

Bond  that  death  must  leave  unriven  : 
While  we  walk  in  parted  ways, 

Close  the  thought  of  you  I  hold, 

Set  in  memory's  antique  gold. 


THE   WATER-LILY. 

FROM  the  reek  of  the  pond,  the  lily 

Has  risen,  in  raiment  white,  — 
A  spirit  of  air  and  water,  — 
A  form  of  incarnate  light. 

Yet,  except  for  the  rooted  stem 
That  steadies  her  diadem,  — 
Except  for  the  earth  she  is  nourished  by, 
Could  the  soul  of  the  lily  have  climbed  to  the  sky  ? 


MY   MERRIMACK. 

DEAR  river,  that  didst  wander  through 
My  childhood's  path,  a  vein  of  blue, 
Freshening  the  pulses  of  my  youth 
Toward  glimpsing  hope  and  opening  truth, 
A  heart  thank-laden  hastens  back 
To  rest  by  thee,  bright  Merrimack ! 

From  hills  with  sunlit  mists  aflame, 
Down  over  rocky  rapids  came, 
Breaking  in  wonder  on  my  sight, 
The  living  water,  glad  as  light. 
A  child,  strayed  inland  from  the  sea, 
The  Merrimack  adopted  me. 

Hemlock  and  pine  inwove  their  spell 

Around  my  thoughts  :  the  forest-smell 

Of  moss  and  fern  was  incense  sweet : 

A  miracle  that  stayed  my  feet  — 

A  blossom-revelation  new 

Sprang  from  thy  side  —  the  harebell  blue  f 


120  MY    MERRIMACK. 

Days  thickened  with  the  dust  of  toil ; 
My  paradise  could  no  man  spoil. 
A  presence  by  my  window  played  ; 
A  dimpling,  glancing  light  and  shade : 
Whatever  sweetness  found  an  end, 
The  river  was  my  constant  friend. 

Though  dew  from  the  Franconia  hills 

Into  thy  crystal  cup  distills  ; 

Though  Winnepesaukee's  ripples  bright, 

And  Pemigewasset's  placid  light,  — 

Music  of  waterfall  and  brook 

Are  in  thy  voice,  and  in  thy  look  : 

Dearer  companionship  than  thine, 
Friends  who  have  made  earth  half-divine, 
Voices  that  blend  with  thy  wild  birds 
And  woodland  flower,  their  loving  words,  • 
Heart-shelter  that  is  holy  ground, 
Beside  thy  waters  have  I  found. 

River  of  inspirations  sweet, 

Wash  off  the  dust  from  weary  feet ! 

Where  shuttles  clash  and  spindles  whirl, 

Sing  to  the  homesick  working-girl 

In  cheerful  undertones,  and  lift 

Her  thoughts  along  thy  current  swift ! 


MY    MERRIMACK.  121 

The  joy  that  thou  hast  been  to  me, 

To  all  thy  bordering  toilers  be  ! 

Broaden  in  friendship,  bloom  with  friends, 

Until  thy  mountain-freshness  spends 

Itself  adown  thy  seaward  track,  — 

My  beautiful  blue  Merrimack  ! 


THE   FIELD-SPARROW. 

A  BUBBLE  of  music  floats 

The  slope  of  the  hill-side  over,  — 
A  little  wandering  sparrow's  notes,  — 

And  the  bloom  of  yarrow  and  clover, 
And  the  smell  of  sweet-fern  and  the  bayberry  leaf 

On  his  ripple  of  song  are  stealing  ; 
For  he  is  a  chartered  thief, 

The  wealth  of  the  fields  revealing. 

One  syllable,  clear  and  soft 

As  a  rain-drop's  silvery  patter, 
Or  a  tinkling  fairy-bell,  heard  aloft, 

In  the  midst  of  the  merry  chatter 
Of  robin  and  linnet  and  wren  and  jay,  — 

One  syllable,  oft  repeated  : 
He  has  but  a  word  to  say, 

And  of  that  he  will  not  be  cheated 

The  singer  I  have  not  seen  ; 
But  the  song  I  arise  and  follow 


THE    FIELD-SPARROW.  123 

The  brown  hills  over,  the  pastures  green, 

And  into  the  sunlit  hollow. 
With  a  joy  that  his  life  unto  mine  has  lent, 

I  can  feel  my  glad  eyes  glisten, 
Though  he  hides  in  his  happy  tent, 

While  I  stand  outside  and  listen. 

This  way  would  I  also  sing, 

My  dear  little  hill-side  neighbor  ! 
A  tender  carol  of  peace  to  bring 

To  the  sun-burnt  fields  of  labor, 
Is  better  than  making  a  loud  ado  ; 

Trill  on,  amid  clover  and  yarrow,  — 
There  's  a  heart-beat  echoing  you, 

And  blessing  you,  blithe  little  sparrow  ! 


OCTOBER. 

SEPTEMBER  days  were  green  and  fair  ; 
But  sharp  winds  pierced  the  shining  air, 
That  froze  the  dimples  of  the  river, 
And  made  the  wayside  blossom  shiver. 

September's  heart  was  winter-steeled  ; 
The  frost  lay  white  upon  the  field, 
Day  after  day  :  the  northern  blast 
Withered  the  bracken  as  it  passed. 

"  The  time  of  snow  !  "  we  said.     Not  yet ! 
Flushed  with  suffusions  of  regret, 
Out  of  the  south  October  came, 
Setting  the  forest's  heart  aflame. 

Summer  returned  with  her,  and  still 
She  lingers  with  us  :  stream  and  hill 
And  wide  fields  waver  like  a  dream 
Through  warm,  soft  mist,  and  tender  gleam. 


OCTOBER.  125 

Again  the  gentian  dares  unfold 
Blue  fringes  closed  against  the  cold  ; 
Again,  in  mossy  solitudes, 
The  glimmering  aster  lights  the  woods. 

One  mass  of  sunshine,  glows  the  beech  ; 
Great  oaks,  in  scarlet  drapery,  reach 
Across  the  crimson  blackberry  vine, 
Toward  purple  ash  and  sombre  pine, 

The  orange-tinted  sassafras 
With  quaintest  foliage  strews  the  grass  ; 
Witch-hazel  shakes  her  gold  curls  out, 
'Mid  the  red  maple's  flying  rout. 

Our  forests,  that  so  lately  stood 
Like  any  green  familiar  wood, 
Aladdin's  fabulous  tale  repeat,  — 
The  trees  drop  jewels  at  our  feet. 

With  every  day,  some  splendor  strange  ! 
With  every  hour  some  subtle  change  ! 
Of  our  plain  world  how  could  we  guess 
Such  miracles  of  loveliness  ? 

Ah,  let  the  green  Septembers  go  ! 
They  promise  more  than  they  bestow  ; 


126  OCTOBER. 

But  now  the  earth  around  us  seems 
Clad  in  the  radiance  of  our  dreams. 

Omen  of  joy  to  thee  and  me, 
Dear  friend,  may  this  rare  season  be ! 
Life  has  not  had  its  perfect  test ; 
Our  latest  years  may  be  our  best. 

Heaven's  inmost  warmth  may  wait  us  still. 
What  if,  beyond  time's  autumn-chill 
There  bless  us,  ere  we  hence  depart, 
A  glad  October  of  the  heart ! 


WHEN   THE   WOODS   TURN   BROWN. 

How  will  it  be  when  the  roses  fade 

Out  of  the  garden  and  out  of  the  glade  ? 

When  the  fresh  pink  bloom  of  the  sweet-brier  wild, 

That  leans  from  the  dell  like  the  cheek  of  a  child, 

Is  changed  for  dry  hips  on  a  thorny  bush  ? 

Then  scarlet  and  carmine  the  groves  will  flush. 

How  will  it  be  when  the  autumn  flowers 
Wither  away  from  their  leafless  bowers  ; 
When  sun-flower  and  star-flower  and  golden-rod 
Glimmer  no  more  from  the  frosted  sod, 
And  the  hill-side  nooks  are  empty  and  cold  ? 
Then  the  forest-tops  will  be  gay  with  gold. 

How  will  it  be  when  the  woods  turn  brown, 
Their  gold  and  their  crimson  all  dropped  down, 
And  crumbled  to  dust  ?     Oh  then,  as  we  lay 
Our  ear  to  earth's  lips,  we  shall  hear  her  say, 
"In    the    dark,   I    am    seeking    new  gems    for    my 

crown  "  — 
We  will  dream  of  green  leaves,  when  the  woods  turn 

brown. 


NOVEMBER. 

WHO  said  November's  face  was  grim  ? 

Who  said  her  voice  was  harsh  and  sad  ? 
I  heard  her  sing  in  wood  paths  dim, 

I  met  her  on  the  shore,  so  glad, 
So  smiling,  I  could  kiss  her  feet ! 
There  never  was  a  month  so  sweet. 

October's  splendid  robes,  that  hid 
The  beauty  of  the  white-limbed  trees, 

Have  dropped  in  tatters  ;  yet  amid 
Those  perfect  forms  the  gazer  sees 

A  proud  wood-monarch  here  and  there 

Garments  of  wine-dipped  crimson  wear. 

In  precious  flakes  the  autumnal  gold 
Is  clinging  to  the  forest's  fringe : 

Yon  bare  twig  to  the  sun  will  hold 
Each  separate  leaf,  to  show  the  tinge 

Of  glorious  rose-light  reddening  through 

Its  jewels,  beautiful  as  few. 


NOVEMBER.  1 29 

Where  short-lived  wild-flowers  bloomed  and  died 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fall  across 
Vine-broideries,  woven  from  side  to  side 

Above  mosaics  of  tinted  moss. 
So  does  the  Eternal  Artist's  skill 
Hide  beauty  under  beauty  still. 

And,  if  no  note  of  bee  or  bird 

Through  the  rapt  stillness  of  the  woods 
Or  the  sea's  murmurous  trance  be  heard, 

A  Presence  in  these  solitudes 
Upon  the  spirit  seems  to  press 
The  dew  of  God's  dear  silences. 

And  if,  out  of  some  inner  heaven, 

With  soft  relenting  comes  a  day 
Whereto  the  heart  of  June  is  given,  — 

All  subtle  scents  and  spicery 
Through  forest  crypts  and  arches  steal, 
With  power  unnumbered  hurts  to  heal. 

Through  yonder  rended  veil  of  green, 
That  used  to  shut  the  sky  from  me, 

New  glimpses  of  vast  blue  are  seen  ; 
I  never  guessed  that  so  much  sea 

Bordered  my  little  plot  of  ground, 

And  held  me  clasped  so  close  around. 
9 


I3O  NOVEMBER. 

This  is  the  month  of  sunrise  skies 
Intense  with  molten  mist  and  flame ; 

Out  of  the  purple  deeps  arise 

Colors  no  painter  yet  could  name  : 

Gold-lilies  and  the  cardinal-flower 

Were  pale,  against  this  gorgeous  hour. 

Still  lovelier  when  athwart  the  east 
The  level  beam  of  sunset  falls  ; 

The  tints  of  wild-flowers  long  deceased 
Glow  then  upon  the  horizon  walls  ; 

Shades  of  the  rose  and  violet 

Close  to  their  dear  world  lingering  yet. 

What  idleness,  to  moan  and  fret 
For  any  season  fair,  gone  by  ! 

Life's  secret  is  not  guessed  at  yet ; 
Veil  under  veil  its  wonders  lie. 

Through  grief  and  loss  made  glorious, 

The  soul  of  past  joy  lives  in  us. 

More  welcome  than  voluptuous  gales 
This  keen,  crisp  air,  as  conscience  clear 

November  breathes  no  flattering  tales,  — 
The  plain  truth-teller  of  the  year  ; 

Who  wins  her  heart,  and  he  alone, 

Knows  she  has  sweetness  all  her  own. 


A   WHITE  WORLD. 

I  NEVER  knew  the  world  in  white 

So  beautiful  could  be 
As  I  have  seen  it  here  to-day, 

Beside  the  wintry  sea  ; 
A  new  earth,  bride  of  a  new  heaven, 

Has  been  revealed  to  me. 

The  sunrise  blended  wave  and  cloud 

In  one  broad  flood  of  gold, 
But  touched  with  rose  the  world's  white  robes 

In  every  curve  and  fold  ; 
While  the  blue  air  did  over  all 

Its  breath  in  wonder  hold. 

Earth  was  a  statue  half  awake 

Beneath  her  Sculptor's  hand  : 
How  the  Great  Master  bends  with  love 

Above  the  work  He  planned, 
Easy  it  is,  on  such  a  day, 

To  feel  and  understand. 


132  A    WHITE    WORLD. 

The  virgin-birth  of  Bethlehem, 

That  snow-pure  infancy, 
Warm  with  the  rose-bloom  of  the  skies, — 

Life's  holiest  mystery, 
God's  utter  tenderness  to  man, 

Seems  written  on  all  I  see. 

For  earth,  this  vast  humanity, 

The  Lord's  own  body  is  ; 
This  life  of  ours  He  entereth  in, 

Shares  all  its  destinies  ; 
And  we  shall  put  His  whiteness  on 

When  we  are  wholly  His. 

And  so  the  day  dies  like  a  dream, 

A  prophecy  divine  : 
Dear  Master,  through  us  perfectly 

Shape  Thou  Thy  white  design, 
Nor  let  one  life  be  left  a  blot 

On  this  fair  world  of  Thine  ! 

BEVERLY  FARMS, 
January  i,  1873. 


SNOW-BLOOM. 

WHERE  does  the  snow  go, 

So  white  on  the  ground  ? 
Under  May's  azure 

No  flake  can  be  found. 
Look  into  the  lily 

Some  sweet  summer  hour 
There  blooms  the  snow 

In  the  heart  of  the  flower. 

Where  does  the  love  go, 

Frozen  to  grief  ? 
Along  the  heart's  fibres 

Its  cold  thrill  is  brief. 
The  snow-fall  of  sorrow 

Turns  not  to  dry  dust ; 
It  lives  in  white  blossoms 

Of  patience  and  trust. 


BETWEEN  WINTER   AND   SPRING. 

THAT  weary  time  that  comes  between 
The  last  snow  and  the  earliest  green ! 
One  barren  clod  the  wide  fields  lie, 
And  all  our  comfort  is  the  sky. 

We  know  the  sap  is  in  the  tree,  — 
That  life  at  buried  roots  must  be  ; 
Yet  dreary  is  the  earth  we  tread, 
As  if  her  very  soul  were  dead. 

Before  the  dawn  the  darkest  hour ! 
The  blank  and  chill  before  the  flower ! 
Beauty  prepares  this  background  gray 
Whereon  her  loveliest  tints  to  lay. 

Ah,  patience  !  ere  we  dream  of  it, 
Spring's  fair  new  gospel  will  be  writ. 
Look  up  !  good  only  can  befall, 
While  heaven  is  at  the  heart  of  all ! 


FRIEND  BROOK. 

THOU  hastenest  down  between  the  hills  to  meet  me 

at  the  road, 

The  secret  scarcely  lisping,  of  thy  beautiful  abode 
Among  the  pines  and  mosses  of  yonder  shadowy 

height, 
Where  thou   dost   sparkle   into  song,  and  fill  the 

woods  with  light. 

The  traveller  crossing  the  rude  bridge,  dear  Brook, 
would  never  guess, 

From  thy  staid  movement  through  the  fields,  thy 
mountain  loveliness  ; 

Thou  wanderest  among  weeds  and  grain  in  common 
place  disguise, 

Most  happy  to  evade  the  glance  of  undiscerning 
eyes. 

But    I  have   heard  thee  whispering,  "  Call   me  by 

name,  '  Friend  Brook,' 
For  that  I  am  to  thee  ;   come  up  to  my  remotest 

nook, 


136  FRIEND    BROOK. 

And   I   will    give  thee  freedom    of    the    hospitable 

hills, 
And  pour  my  freshness  through  thy  life,  from  clouds 

and  springs  and  rills." 

O  happy  soul !  thy  song  is  sweet  upon  the  mount 
ain-side; 

The  trees  bend  over  thee,  in  league  to  stay  thy 
downward  tide ; 

The  wild  arbutus,  flushed  with  haste,  trails  close  to 
make  appeal 

For  brief  delay,  and  after  her  the  wet-eyed  violets 
steal. 

But  not  the  white  wake-robin,  nor  the  star-flower  on 
thy  brink, 

Nor  any  forest  shrub  whose  roots  from  thee  refresh 
ment  drink, 

Can  need  thee  with  my  need,  Friend  Brook ;  and 
never  any  bird 

Can  trill  such  gratitude  to  thee  as  my  heart  chants 
unheard. 

No  ;  not  the  wood-thrush  singing  in  the  pine-trees' 

twilight  shade, 
As  if  one  half  his  melody  the  boughs'  low  murmur 

made,  — 


FRIEND    BROOK.  137 

A  love-song  eloquent  with  breaks  of  speechless  ten 
derness, 

A  music  heard  through  thy  soft  rush,  too  sweet  to 
tell  or  guess. 

For   thou   respondest   humanly,   almost,   to  human 

thought, 
Soothing  the  silent  pain  wherewith  a  stranger  med- 

dieth  not ; 
Healing  sick  fancies  from  thy  clear  life's  overflowing 

cup, 
And  winning  flagging  foot  and  heart  forever  up  and 

up. 

Friend  Brook,  I  hold  thee  dearest  yet  for  what  I  do 

not  know 
Of  thy  pure  secret  springs  afar,  the  mystery  of  thy 

flow 
Out  of  the  mountain  caverns,  hid  by  tangled  brier 

and  fern ; 
A  friend  is  most  a  friend  of  whom  the  best  remains 

to  learn. 

New-born  each  moment,  flashing  light  through  worn, 

accustomed  ways, 
With  gentle  hindrance,  gay  surprise,  sweet  hurryings 

and  delays ; 


138  FRIEND    BROOK. 

Spirit  that  issuest  forth  from  wells  of  life  unguessed, 

unseen, 
A   revelation   thou    of   all   that   holiest  friendships 

mean ! 

I  will  not  name  the  hills  that  meet  to  hold  thee  hand 
in  hand, 

The  summits  leaning  toward  thy  voice,  the  mount 
ain,  lone  and  grand, 

That  looks  across  to  welcome  thee  into  the  open 
light ; 

Be  hidden,  O  my  brook,  from  all  save  love's  anointed 
sight ! 

Yet  I  am  glad  that  every  year,  and  all  the  summer 

long, 
Some  wayfarers  will  seek  thy  side,  and  listen  to  thy 

song, 
And  feel  their  hearts  bound  on  with  thine  over  the 

rocks  of  care ; 
With  such   as  these,  through   shade  and  shine,  thy 

friendship  will  I  share. 

And  out  of  their  abounding  joy  new  loveliness  and 
grace 

Will  grow  into  the  memory  of  thy  green  abiding- 
place. 


FRIEND    BROOK.  139 

tl 


Thou  veilest  thyself  in  sun-touched  mists  througl 

which  I  may  not  look, 
Yet  blends  my  being  with  thy  flow,  in  stir  and  rest, 

Friend  Brook ! 


ONE   BUTTERFLY. 

A  PURPLE  stretch  of  mountains, 

And,  them  and  me  between, 
A  bed  of  sweet,  red  clover, 

Billows  of  meadowy  green. 
Across  the  wind-swept  pastures 

One  snow-white  butterfly 
Sails  toward  the  grand  horizon, 

Sole  voyager  of  the  sky. 

The  delicate  cloud-shadows 

Win  from  the  mountain-sides 
Glimpses  of  shy,  strange  color, 

That  common  sunshine  hides. 
To  read  that  revelation 

There  's  none  save  thou  and  I, 
In  all  this  noon-lit  silence, 

My  white-winged  butterfly. 

Is  it  a  waste  of  beauty, 
That  only  we  behold 


ONE  BUTTERFLY. 

Those  emerald  hues  ethereal, 

Wavering  through  pearl  and  gold  ? 

My  heart  aches  with  the  wonder 
Of  all  the  unrolling  sky, 

The  new,  immense  horizons, 
My  lonely  butterfly ! 


WHITE  EVERLASTING  FLOWERS. 

THAT  morning  on  the  mountain-top  ! 
Could  the  day's  chariot  wheel  but  stop, 
And  leave  us  in  this  trance  of  light 
Upon  our  autumn-crimsoned  height,  — 
Summit  of  lifted  solitudes, 
Where  but  the  hermit  breeze  intrudes  ; 
With  one  blue  river  glimpsed  in  sheen 
Along  the  valley's  perfect  green; 
With  lakes  that  open  limpid  eyes 
Unto  the  old  heavens'  new  surprise ; 
And  over  all,  a  purple  range 
Of  hills,  that  glow  and  pale,  and  change 
To  pearl  and  turquoise,  rose  and  snow, 
As  cloud  processions  past  them  go, 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  air. 

Yes  !  earth  to-day  in  heaven  hath  share  !  " 
We  told  each  other  in  our  thought, 
Though  in  that  high  hush  lips  moved  not. 
If  that  were  only  Bearcamp  stream 
That  lit  the  vale  with  sinuous  gleam  ; 


WHITE    EVERLASTING   FLOWERS.  143 

If  mountains  that  in  opal  shone 
By  common,  rustic  names  were  known,  — - 
Old  Israel,  Hunchback,  and  the  rest, 
In  floods  of  beauty  they  lay  blest ; 
And  bathed  in  the  same  bliss  were  we, 
On  the  pine-crest  of  Ossipee. 

"  Earth  is  not  mere  hard  earth,"  we  said, 
"  A  place  of  toil  for  daily  bread, 

A  clod  to  cover  us  at  last, 

When  struggle  and  defeat  are  past ; 

But  heaven  is  hid  therein  alway,  — 

The  gem's  clear  essence  in  dull  clay ; 

And  by  celestial  visionings 

Alone  we  read  the  truth  of  things. 

Since  life  puts  off  her  rough  disguise 

As  into  purer  air  we  rise, 

Why  should  we  leave  our  hard-won  peak, 

The  lowland  commonplace  to  seek  ? 

Here,  with  transfiguring  rapture  thrilled, 

Here  let  us  tabernacles  build  !  " 

What  was  it  stopped  our  musing  talk  ? 
White  blossoms  scattered  on  a  rock,  — 
White  everlasting  flowers,  that  grow 
Where  bleakest  north  winds  beat  and  blow,  — 
New  England's  amaranth.     Some  tired  hand 


144  WHITE    EVERLASTING    FLOWERS. 

Had  dropped  them,  or,  in  visions  grand 

As  ours,  had  let  them  slip,  forgot, 

The  text  of  our  bewildered  thought 

Left  to  illumine  and  explain  ; 

Pathetic  flowers,  that  might  have  lain 

Days,  months,  in  their  torn  raiment  white, 

Undying  children  of  the  light, 

By  whoso  sought  them,  scorned,  thrown  by, 

Rapt  with  these  mountain  splendors  high. 

Climb  for  the  white  flower  of  thy  dream, 

O  pilgrim  !  let  the  vision  gleam 

As  hope  and  possibility, 

Down  the  low  level  that  must  be 

Thy  usual  path  ;  but  do  not  stay, 

Enamored  of  supernal  day, 

While  thy  benighted  comrades  grope 

In  shadows  on  the  dangerous  slope ! 

Its  light  in  eye  and  heart  shall  be 

A  signal  betwixt  them  and  thee 

Of  joy  to  wait  for  and  desire, 

While  faith  can  glow,  or  souls  aspire. 

Yet  hold  fast  something  to  recall 
The  glory  that  envelops  all 
The  meanest  dust  that  round  us  lies,  — 
Some  glimpse  of  near  eternities,  — 


WHITE    EVERLASTING    FLOWERS.  145 

Though  but  one  everlasting  flower, 
Memory  of  one  immortal  hour : 
For  waif  more  saddening  none  may  find 
Than  amaranth  plucked,  and  left  behind. 

WEST  OSSIPEE,  N.  H., 
September,  1875. 


ON   THE   LEDGE. 

RESTORED  unto  life  by  the  sun  and  the  breeze .! 
Rich  balsams  float  down  from  the  resinous  trees, 
Stirring  into  quick  health  every  pulse  of  the  air  : 
Released  once  again  from  imprisoning  care, 
At  the  gate  of  green  pastures  my  soul  lieth  free, 
And  to  go  in  or  out  is  refreshment  to  me. 

Lo,  yonder  is  Paradise  !    Softly  below, 

The  river  that  watereth  Eden  doth  flow  ! 

I   behold,    through   blue   gaps   in  the  mountainous 

West, 
Height   ascending   on    height,    the   abodes   of    the 

blest : 

And  I  cannot  tell  whether  to  climb  were  more  sweet 
Than  to  lap  me  in  beauty  spread  out  at  my  feet. 

There  sways  a  white  cloud  on  yon  loftiest  peak  ; 
A  wind  from  beyond  it  is  fanning  my  cheek  ; 
Through   the  oak  and   the  birch  glides    a  musical 

shiver ; 
A  ripple  just  silvers  the  dusk  of  the  river. 


ON    THE    LEDGE.  147 

—  Though  I  may  not  know  how,  each  is  part  of  the 

whole 
Perfect   flood-tide   of  peace   that   is  brimming  my 

soul. 

Here   is    shelter   and   outlook,  deep  rest  and  wide 

room  ; 
The   pine   woods    behind,    breathing    balm   out   of 

gloom  ; 

Before,  the  great  hills  over  vast  levels  lean,  — 
A  glory  of  purple,  a  splendor  of  green. 
As  a  new  earth  and  heaven,  ye  are  mine  once  again, 
Ye  beautiful  meadows  and  mountains  of  Maine ! 

BETHEL,  Maine, 
September, 


UP  THE   ANDROSCOGGIN. 

SHINING  along  its  windings 

I  behold  the  river  rush, 
Hinting  of  lakes  deep  hidden 
In  a  far-off  mountain  hush. 
It  flashes  their  mystery  hither ; 
It  carries  it  onward  —  whither  ? 
Like  the  ocean-moan  in  the  heart  of  a  shell, 
I  hear  that  steady  monotone  tell 
How  all  great  action  reveals  at  length 
Unguessed  resources  of  lonely  strength. 

Swift  traveller,  hurrying  river, 

Whence  hast  thou  come  to-day? 
From  tenantless  forests  of  Errol, 
Green  glooms  of  Magalloway ; 
White  lilies,  in  careless  order, 
Thronged  out  through  thy  rippling  border, 
And  the  moss-hung  limbs  of  the  aged  fir 
Waved  over  thee  weirdly,  in  farewell  stir, 
And  the  old  cliff-eagle  screamed  after  thee,  — 
Umbagog's  wild  nursling,  escaped  to  the  sea. 


UP    THE    ANDROSCOGGIN.  £49 

Where  the  foot-hills  of  Waumbek-Methna 

Descend  to  the  woodlands  of  Maine, 
Down  fliest  thou,  as  unto  thy  kindred,  — 

A  steed  with  a  loosened  rein. 
No  art  may  depict  the  fierce  fashion, 
The  impulse,  the  plunge,  and  the  passion 
Of  brown  waters  bounding  through  barriers  strait, 
To  gaze  on  the  solemn,  crowned  summits,  that  wait, 
Advance,  then  recede  into  distances  gray, 
While,  moaning  and  sobered,  thou  goest  thy  way. 

Beyond  are  the  fields  of  Bethel, 

The  meadows  of  perfect  green, 
Where,  a  fugitive  weary  and  listless, 

Thou  sleepest  in  silvery  sheen. 
But  lower  and  less  are  the  mountains 
That  dip  their  rough  feet  in  thy  fountains, 
And  thy  onward  journey,  thou  wilderness  stream, 
Is  as  when  one  wakes  from  a  morning  dream 
Unto  daily  labor,  while  earth  and  air 
Grow  dull  with  a  tinge  of  pervading  care. 

Thy  song  rolled  clear,  Androscoggin  ! 

Like  the  rune  of  a  seer  it  ran  : 
The  story  and  life  of  a  river 

Are  the  life  and  the  story  of  man. 


150  UP   THE   ANDROSCOGGIN. 

The  resolve,  the  romantic  endeavor, 
The  dream  that  fulfills  itself  never ; 
With  freshness  that  urges,  and  full  veins  that  boil, 
Down  the  hill-sides  of  hope,  over  levels  of  toil, 
Till  the  Will  that  moves  under  our  purpose  is  done, 
And  the  stream  and  the  ocean  have  met,  and  are 
one  ! 

BERLIN  FALLS,  N.  H., 
September,  1878. 


IN  A   CLOUD   RIFT. 

UPON  our  loftiest  White  Mountain  peak, 

Filled  with  the  freshness  of  untainted  air, 
We  sat,  nor  cared  to  listen  or  to  speak 

To  one  another,  for  the  silence  there 
Was  eloquent  with  God's  presence.     Not  a  sound 

Uttered  the  winds  in  their  unhindered  sweep 
Above  us  through  the  heavens.     The  gulf  profound, 

Below  us,  seethed  with  mists,  a  sullen  deep : 
From  thawless  ice-caves  of  a  vast  ravine 
Rolled  sheeted  clouds  across  the  lands  unseen. 

How  far  away  seemed  all  that  we  had  known 
In  homely  levels  of  the  earth  beneath, 

Where  still  our  thoughts  went  wandering  !  —  "  Turn 

thee!"     Blown 
Apart  before  us,  a  dissolving  wreath 

Of  cloud  framed  in  a  picture  on  the  air  : 

The  fair  long  Saco  Valley,  whence  we  came ; 

The  hills  and  lakes  of  Ossipee  ;  and  there 

Glimmers    the   sea !      Some    pleasant,   well-known 
name 


152  IN   A    CLOUD    RIFT. 

With  every  break  to  memory  hastens  back,  — 
Monadnock  —  Winnepesaukee  —  Merrimack. 

On  widening  vistas  broader  rifts  unfold ; 

Far  off  into  the  waters  of  Champlain 
Great  sunset  summits  dip  their  flaming  gold ; 

There  winds  the  dim  Connecticut,  a  vein 
Of  silver  through  aerial  green  ;  and  here 

The  upland  street  of  rural  Bethlehem  ; 
And  there,  the  roofs  of  Bethel.     Azure-clear 

Shimmers  the  Androscoggin  ;  like  a  gem 
Umbagog  glistens  ;  and  Katahdin  gleams,  — 
Or  is  it  some  dim  mountain  of  our  dreams  ? 

Our  own  familiar  world,  not  yet  half  known, 

Nor  loved  enough,  in  tints  of  Paradise 
Lies  there  before  us,  now  so  lovely  grown, 

We  wonder  what  strange  film  was  on  our  eyes 
Ere  we  climbed  hither.     But  again  the  cloud, 

Descending,  shuts  the  beauteous  vision  out ; 
Between  us  the  abysses  spread  their  shroud ; 

We  are  to  earth,  as  earth  to  us,  a  doubt. 
Dear  home  folk,  skyward  seeking  us,  can  see 
No  crest  or  crag  where  pilgrim  feet  may  be. 

Who  whispered  unto  us  of  life  and  death 

As  silence  closed  upon  our  hearts  once  more  ? 


IN    A    CLOUD    RIFT.  153 

On  heights  where  angels  sit,  perhaps  a  breath 
May  clear  the  separating  gulfs  ;  a  door 

May  open  sometimes  betwixt  earth  and  heaven, 
And  life's  most  haunting  mystery  be  shown 

A  fog-drift  of  the  mind,  scattered  and  driven 
Before  the  winds  of  God  ;  no  vague  unknown 

Death's  dreaded  path,  —  only  a  curtained  stair  ; 

And  heaven  but  earth  raised  into  purer  air. 


MOUNTAINEER'S    PRAYER. 

GIRD  me  with  the  strength  of  Thy  steadfast  hills, 

The  speed  of  Thy  streams  give  me ! 
In  the  spirit  that  calms,  with  the  life  that  thrills, 

I  would  stand  or  run  for  Thee. 
Let  me  be  Thy  voice,  or  Thy  silent  power, 

As  the  cataract,  or  the  peak,  — 
An  eternal  thought,  in  my  earthly  hour, 

Of  the  living  God  to  speak ! 

Clothe  me  in  the  rose-tints  of  Thy  skies, 

Upon  morning  summits  laid  ! 
Robe  me  in  the  purple  and  gold  that  flies 

Through  Thy  shuttles  of  light  and  shade ! 
Let  me  rise  and  rejoice  in  Thy  smile  aright, 

As  mountains  and  forests  do ! 
Let  me  welcome  Thy  twilight  and  Thy  night, 

And  wait  for  Thy  dawn  anew  ! 

Give  me  of  the  brook's  faith,  joyously  sung 
Under  clank  of  its  icy  chain ! 


MOUNTAINEER'S  PRAYER.  155 

Give  me  of  the  patience  that  hides  among 

Thy  hill-tops,  in  mist  and  rain ! 
Lift  me  up  from  the  clod,  let  me  breathe  Thy  breath ! 

Thy  beauty  and  strength  give  me  ! 
Let   me   lose  both  the  name  and  the  meaning  of 
death, 

In  the  life  that  I  share  with  Thee  ! 


ASLEEP   ON  THE  SUMMIT. 

UPON  the  mountain's  stormy  breast 
I  laid  me  down  and  sank  to  rest ; 
I  felt  the  wild  thrill  of  the  blast, 
Defied  and  welcomed  as  it  passed, 
And  made  my  lullaby  the  psalm 
Of  strife  that  wins  immortal  calm. 

Cradled  and  rocked  by  wind  and  cloud, 
Safe  pillowed  on  the  summit  proud, 
Steadied  by  that  encircling  arm 
Which  holds  the  universe  from  harm, 
I  knew  the  Lord  my  soul  would  keep, 
Among  His  mountain-tops  asleep. 

MOUNT  WASHINGTON,  N.  H., 
August,  1877. 


SHARED. 

I  SAID  it  in  the  meadow-path, 

I  say  it  on  the  mountain-stairs,  — 

The  best  things  any  mortal  hath 

Are  those  which  every  mortal  shares. 

The  air  we  breathe,  the  sky,  the  breeze, 
The  light  without  us  and  within, 

Life,  with  its  unlocked  treasuries, 
God's  riches,  are  for  all  to  win. 

The  grass  is  softer  to  my  tread 

For  rest  it  yields  unnumbered  feet ; 

Sweeter  to  me  the  wild-rose  red 

Because  she  makes  the  whole  world  sweet. 

Into  your  heavenly  loneliness 

Ye  welcomed  me,  O  solemn  peaks ! 

And  me  in  every  guest  you  bless 
Who  reverently  your  mystery  seeks. 


i58 


SHARED. 


And  up  the  radiant  peopled  way 
That  opens  into  worlds  unknown, 

It  will  be  life's  delight  to  say 
"  Heaven  is  not  heaven  for  me  alone." 

Rich  by  my  brethren's  poverty  ! 

Such  wealth  were  hideous  !     I  am  blest 
Only  in  what  they  share  with  me, 

In  what  I  share  with  all  the  rest. 


FROM   THE   HILLS. 

FROM  white  brows   flushed  with  heavenly  morning- 
red, 

From  faces  beautiful  with  prophecy 

Of  the  sun-gospel  a  new  day  shall  see, 
From  cloud-wrapt  shape  and  light-anointed  head, 
Out  of  whose  gracious  mystery  words  are  said 

That  wake  abysmal  voices,  and  set  free 

Reverberations  of  eternity, 
Down  to  the  level  ocean  are  we  sped, 
Where  broken  tints  in  wide  illusion  blend, 

And  all  sounds  gather  into  monotone. 

Always  unto  great  seers  have  mountains  shown 
Their  Founder  and  Uprearer  as  man's  friend. 

The  hills  are  a  religion ;  but  the  sea, 

O  Truth,  is  doubt's  unanswered  moan  to  thee  ! 


A   PASSING  SAIL. 

I  WATCHED  the  white  sails  moving 

On  the  summer  sea  : 
One  went  bird-wise,  wing  and  wing, 

Fluttering  joyously  ; 
Ocean  space  she  seemed  to  fill 

With  her  graceful  flight ; 
Fancy,  spell-bound,  followed  her, 

Till  she  was  out  of  sight. 

Behind  her,  one  was  dimly 

Penciled  on  the  mist ; 
If  the  sail-speck  moved  at  all, 

None,  in  passing,  wist. 
Yet  was  this  an  Indian  bark 

On  her  voyage  of  years  ; 
And  that,  a  pretty  pleasure  yacht, 

An  idling  school-boy  steers. 

No  argosy  or  frigate 

Courtesies  in  wavelets  light ; 


A    PASSING    SAIL.  l6l 

Ships  that  carry  world-supplies 

Dare  mid-ocean's  might. 
Tnfler,  haply  freighted  lives, 

Unadmired  of  thee, 
Grander  are  than  thy  small  guess, 

And  farther  out  at  sea. 
ii 


BERMOOTHES. 

UNDER  the  eaves  of  a  Southern  sky, 

Where  the  cloud  roof  bends  to  the  ocean  floor, 

Hid  in  lonely  seas,  the  Bermoothes  lie,  — 
An  emerald  cluster  that  Neptune  bore 

Away  from  the  covetous  earth-god's  sight, 

And  placed  in  a  setting  of  sapphire  light. 

Prospero's  realm  and  Miranda's  isles, 

Floating  to  music  of  Ariel 
Upon  fantasy's  billow,  that  glows  and  smiles, 

Flushing  response  to  the  lovely  spell ; 
Tremulous  color  and  outline  seem 
Lucent  as  glassed  in  a  life-like  dream. 

And  away  and  afar,  as  in  dreams  we  drift, 
Glimmer  the  blossoming  orange  groves  ; 

And  the  dolphin  tints  of  the  water  shift, 

And    the    angel-fish    through   the    pure    lymph 
moves 

With  the  gleam  of  a  rainbow ;  and  soft  clouds  sweep 

Over  isle  and  wave  like  the  wings  of  sleep. 


BERMOOTHES.  163 

Deepens  the  dream  into  memory  now  :  — 

The  straight  roads  cut  through  the  cedar  hills, 

The  coral  cliffs  and  the  roofs  of  snow, 
And  the  crested  cardinal-bird,  that  trills 

A  carol  clear  as  the  ripple  of  red 

He  made  in  the  air,  as  he  flashed  overhead. 

Through  pathways  trodden  of  many  feet 

The  gray  little  ground-dove  flutters  and  cooes  ; 

The  bluebird  is  singing  a  ballad  sweet 

As  ever  was  mingled  with  Northern  dews  ; 

And  the  boatswain-bird  from  the  calm  lagoon 

Lifts  his  white  length  into  cloudless  noon. 

Under  this  headland  cliff  as  you  row, 

Follow  its  bastioned  layers  down 
Into  fathomless  crystal,  far  below 

Vision  or  ken  :  spite  of  old  renown, 
So  massive  a  wall  could  Titan  erect 
As  the  little  coralline  architect  ? 

Against  the  dusk  arches  of  surf-worn  caves 

o 

In  a  shimmer  of  beryl  eddies  the  tide; 
Or  brightens  to  topaz  where  the  waves, 

Outlined  in  foam,  on  the  reef  subside  ; 
Or  shades  into  delicate  opaline  bands 
Dreamily  lapsing  on  pale  pink  sands. 


164  BERMOOTHES. 

See  the  banana's  broad  pennons,  the  wind 
Has  torn  into  shreds  in  his  tropical  mood ! 

Look  at  the  mighty  old  tamarind 

That  bore  fruit  in  Saladin's  babyhood  ! 

See  the  pomegranates  begin  to  burn, 

And  the  roses,  roses,  at  every  turn  ! 

Into  high  calms  of  the  sunny  air 

The  aloe  climbs  with  her  golden  flower, 

While  sentinel  yucca  and  prickly-pear 

With  lance  and  with  bayonet  guard  her  bower  ; 

And  the  life-leaf  creeps  by  its  fibred  edge 

To  hang  out  gay  bells  from  the  jutting  ledge. 

A  glory  of  oleander-bloom 

Borders  and  brightens  the  craggy  roads  ; 
From  the  dim  spice-gardens  a  rare  perfume 

The  lingering  cloud  fleet  heavily  loads ; 
And  over  the  beauty  and  over  the  balm 
Rises  the  crown  of  the  royal  palm. 

Far  into  the  hill-sides  caverns  wind  : 

Pillar  and  ceiling  of  stalactite 
Mirrored  in  lakes  the  red  torches  find ; 

Corridors  zigzag  from  light  to  light  ; 
And  the  long  fern  swings  down  the  slippery  stair 
Over  thresholds  curtained  with  maiden-hair. 


BERMOOTHES.  1 65 

Outside,  with  a  motion  weirdly  slow, 

The  mangrove  walks  through  secluded  coves, 

Leaning  on  crutch-like  boughs,  that  grow 
Downward,  and  root  into  tangled  groves, 

Where,  sheltered  by  jagged  rock-shelves  wide, 

Eeriest  sprites  of  the  deep  might  hide. 

Wherever  you  wander,  the  sea  is  in  sight, 
With  its  changeable  turquois  green  and  blue, 

And  its  strange  transparence  of  limpid  light : 
You  can  watch  the  work  that  the  Nereids  do, 

Down,  down,  where  their  purple  fans  unfurl, 

Planting  their  coral  and  sowing  their  pearl. 

Who  knows  the  spot  where  Atlantis  sank  ? 

Myths  of  a  lovely  drowned  continent 
Homeless  drift  over  waters  blank  : 

What  if  these  reefs  were  her  monument  ? 
Isthmus  and  cavernous  cape  may  be 
Her  mountain  summits  escaped  from  the  sea. 

Spirits  alone  in  these  islands  dwelt 

All  the  dumb,  dim  years  ere  Columbus  sailed, 
The  old  voyagers  said  ;  and  it  might  be  spelt 

Into  dream-books  of  legend,  if  wonders  failed, 
They  were  demons  that    shipwrecked  Atlantis,  af- 

frayed 
At  the  terror  of  silence  themselves  had  made. 


1 66  BERMOOTHES. 

Whatever  their  burden,  the  winds  have  a  sound 
As  of  muffled  voices  that,  moaning,  bewail 

An  unchronicled  sorrow,  around  and  around 
Whispering  and  hushing  a  half-told  tale,  — 

A  musical  mystery,  filling  the  air 

With  its  endless  pathos  of  vague  despair. 

And  again  into  fantasy's  billowy  play 

Ripples  memory  back,  with  elusive  change  ; 

For  chrysolite  oceans,  a  blank  of  gray, 

Fringed  with  the  films  of  a  mirage  strange,  — 

A  shimmering  blur  of  blossom  and  gleam  ; 

Can  it  be  Bermoothes  ?  or  is  it  a  dream  ? 


THE    SUNSET-BIRD    OF   DOMINICA.1 

DOMINICA'S  fire-cleft  summits 
Rise  from  bluest  of  blue  oceans  ; 

Dominica's  palms  and  plantains 

Feel  the  trade-wind's  mighty  motions 

Swaying  with  impetuous  stress 

The  West  Indian  wilderness. 

Tree-ferns  wave  their  fans  majestic, 
Mangoes  lift  white-blossomed  masses 

Bright  against  the  black  abutments 
Of  volcanic  mountain-passes  ; 

Carrying  with  them  up  the  height 

Many  a  gorgeous  parasite. 

1  One  of  many  new  species  of  birds  discovered  in  the  Caribbean 
Islands  by  Mr.  Frederick  A.  Ober,  of  Beverly,  Massachusetts,  and 
added  to  the  collection  in  the  Smithsonian  Institution.  The  cry  of 
this  bird,  just  before  nightfall,  which  sounds  like  the  words  "  Soleil 
coucher  !  "  was  supposed  by  the  Caribs  to  be  the  voice  of  a  spirit ; 
and  they  believed  that  whoever  tried  to  follow  it  would  be  led  into 
some  dreadful  calamity. 


1 68  THE    SUNSET-BIRD    OF    DOMINICA. 

Dominica's  crater-cauldron 

Seethes  against  its  lava-beaches, 

Boils  in  misty  desolation ; 

Seldom  foot  its  border  reaches,  — 

Seldom  any  traveller's  eye 

Penetrates  its  barriers  high. 

Over  hidden  precipices 

Falls  the  unseen  torrent's  thunder  ; 
Windy  shrieks  and  sibilations 

Fill  the  pathless  gorge  with  wonder ; 
And  the  dusky  Carib  hears, 
Cowering  with  mysterious  fears. 

"  Hark  [ "     The  Northern  hunter  listens  : 

Down  the  jungles  of  the  highland 
Steals  a  melody  unearthly, 

Wavering  over  sea  and  island ; 
Can  that  tender  music  start 
From  the  crater's  hollow  heart  ? 

Floats  the  weird  note  onward,  downward, 
Flute-like,  eloquent,  complaining  ; 

As  of  one  afar  off  crying, 

"  Night  is  coming  !  Day  is  waning  !  " 

Toward  the  voice  the  hunter  glides, 

Up  the  thorny  mountain  sides. 


THE    SUNSET-BIRD    OF    DOMINICA.  169 

"  Stay  thee,  stranger !  "  called  the  Carib  ; 

"  Vain  to  track  a  wandering  spirit, 
Bodiless  as  breeze  of  sunset. 

'T  is  no  living  creature  !  hear  it ! 
'  Day  is  waning  ! '     Without  woe, 
None  upon  his  track  may  go." 

Wailed  along  the  hills  the  echo, 

"  Stay  thee  !  stray  not  into  danger  !  " 

Smiling  back  from  splintered  ledges, 
Up  the  beetling  cliff  the  stranger 

With  the  slanting  sunbeam  sped, 

Lost  in  dark  woods  overhead. 

"  Will  he  come  again  ?  "    They  shudder, 
Into  lengthening  shadows  peering ; 
Through  the  sudden  veil  of  night-fall 

Joyfully  his  footfall  hearing  ;    - 
There  the  dark-eyed  hunter  stands, 
Sheltering  something  in  his  hands  ! 

,"  Look  !  a  gray  bird  is  your  spirit ! 

On  his  breast  the  sunset  lingers, 
Golden  as  the  hour  he  sings  in  : 

Touch  him  !  stroke  him  with  light  fingers  ! 
Still  a  spirit,  though  with  wings 
Shaped  like  other  birds,  he  sings." 


THE    SUNSET-BIRD    OF    DOMINICA. 

Need  we  sail  to  Indian  islands, 

That  through  turquoise  oceans  glisten, 
For  strange  misinterpretations 

Wherewith  men  to  nature  listen  ? 
Throbs  the  air  we  breathe  with  good, 
By  dull  hearts  misunderstood. 

Dearer  is  the  voice  from  heaven 
Warning  us  that  life  is  waning, 

When  we  know  its  accents  human, 
Joy  of  all  the  years  remaining.  — 

So,  across  the  seas,  I  heard 

Dominica's  sunset-bird. 


SEA  AND  SKY. 

THE  Sea  is  wedded  to  the  Sky,  — 

Element  unto  element : 
She  spreads  above  him  tenderly 

Her  blue,  transparent  tent. 

The  Sky  is  mated  with  the  Sea : 
In  stormy  tumult  he  ascends 

Toward  her  retreating  mystery  :  — 
Not  thus  their  being  blends. 

But  when  her  deep,  eternal  calm 
Enters  into  his  restless  heart, 

Each  mirrors  back  the  other's  charm  ; 
Nearest,  when  most  apart. 


HORIZON. 

SECLUDED  and  embowered  to  be 
Under  a  whispering  maple-tree, 
That  holds  a  nest,  a  flit  of  wings 
Mid  manifold  leaf-flutterings,  — 

Ah !  peace  and  bliss  of  summer  ! 
Yet  every  wind-waft  that  goes  by, 
Must  leave  an  opening  to  the  sky, 
And  every  bough  that  lifts  must  show 
A  space  of  sea,  a  sunset  glow, 

A  glimpse  of  wide  horizon. 

Rest,  lacking  outlook,  is  not  rest ; 
Close  into  our  own  boundaries  pressed, 
Our  palaces  have  prison-walls, 
Our  moneyed  poverty  appals, 

Our  millions  count  for  nothing. 
Our  creed  must  have  its  break  of  doubt, 
Where  thought  may  sometimes  flutter  out, 
And  all  the  vast  Beyond  flow  in ; 
The  threshold  where  our  hopes  begin 

To  climb,  is  our  horizon. 


HORIZON.  1/3 

Though  rarely,  unto  me  and  you, 
May  mountain  vistas  bound  the  view, 
Or  the  sea's  glamour  lead  us  on, 
Through  mystery  into  mystery  drawn  — 

Even  hints  are  revelations  : 
The  star-edged  shadow  of  a  leaf 
On  sunnier  foliage,  brings  a  brief 
Suggestion  of  light's  ungauged  sea 
To  our  dim  covert ;  gives  our  tree 

Its  universe-horizon. 

In  that  faint  breeze  that  stirs  the  bough, 
I  hear  the  great  aerial  plough 
Furrowing  the  sky-fields,  east  and  west : 
Sphere-music  overflows  the  nest 

Of  yon  home-keeping  robin. 
And  in  the  sob  that  stole  to  me 
From  the  vast  anguish  of  the  sea, 
I  felt  the  restless  wastes  of  soul, 
Life's  fragments,  fain  to  be  made  whole  : 

The  ear  hath  its  horizon. 

Though  never  barrier  may  inclose 
The  sturdy  thought  that  climbs  and  grows,  — 
Though  glimpsed  the  whole  is  in  the  least,  — 
Though  healthy  relish  makes  the  feast,— 
Yet  man  may  pine  and  dwindle : 


174  HORIZON. 

And  thus  he  wins  distrust  and  dole  ; 
Shutting  the  windows  of  his  sou], 
Kindling  his  little  farthing-light, 
And  counting  all  without  him  night, — 
Himself  his  sole  horizon. 

In  life's  large  invitation  blest, 
We  seek  a  west  beyond  the  west, 
Whose  boundless  prairie-billows  run 
Toward  grander  beckonings  of  the  sun  ; 

Man  must  explore,  forever  : 
His  heaven  no  limit  has,  no  bars  ; 
Yet,  setting  sail  for  unknown  stars, 
Green  earth  is  to  his  footfall  sweet: 
These  two  his  blessedness  complete,  — 

A  home  and  a  horizon. 


R.    W.   E. 

MAY  25,  1880. 

DOORS  hast  thou  opened  for  us,  thinker,  seer, 
Bars  let  down  into  pastures  measureless  ; 

The  air  we  breathe  to-day,  through  thee,  is  freer 
Than,  buoyant  with  its  freshness,  we  can  guess. 

Thy  forehead,  toward  the  unrisen  morning  set,  — 
Nature  and  life  faced  with  their  own  calm  gaze, 

No  human  thought  inhospitably  met,  — 
Thou  beckonest  onward,  as  in  earlier  days  : 

A  voice  that  wandered  toward  us,  like  a  breeze, 
From  great  expanses  beyond  time  and  space, 

With  hints  of  unexplored  eternities 

Stirring  the  sluggish  soul  new  paths  to  trace  ; 

A  word  that  gave  us  lightness,  as  of  wings,  — 
Home,  welcome,  freedom  in  the  Everywhere ! 

The  mention  of  thy  name,  like  Nature's,  brings 
A  sense  of  widening  worlds  and  ampler  air. 


J.  G.  W. 
DECEMBER  17,  1877. 

BESIDE  the  Merrimack  he  sung 
His  earliest  songs,  a  Quaker  boy, 

His  father's  mowing-fields  among, 
With  brook  and  bird  to  share  his  joy. 

And  where  the  Powow  glides  to  meet 
The  swift  rush  of  the  Merrimack, 

His  manhood's  voice  rang  strong  and  sweet, 
By  struggling  Freedom  echoed  back. 

He  sang  beside  the  solemn  sea, 

That  thrilled  through  all  its  vast  unrest, 

Until  the  poet's  land  was  free, 

To  song's  wild  war-throb  in  his  breast. 

Among  the  mountains  rose  his  voice, 
When  Peace  made  beautiful  the  air : 

Our  souls  rose  with  him  to  rejoice; 
Our  lives  looked  larger,  worthier,  there. 


J.    G.    W.  177 

And  still  he  sings,  by  sea  and  stream, 
The  songs  that  charm  a  nation's  heart; 

We  dare  not  guess  how  earth  will  seem 
When  his  loved  footsteps  hence  depart. 

Still  sings  he,  while  the  year  grows  gray, 
From  inner  warmth  no  snow  can  chill : 

Spring  breathes  through  his  December  lay; 
His  song  might  waken  bird  and  rill. 

Neither  can  poet  die,  nor  friend ; 

To  Life,  forever,  both  belong  : 
Before  his  human  heart  we  bend, 

Far  nobler  than  his  noblest  song. 


O.  W.    H. 

AUGUST  29,  1879. 

You  may  change  the  initials,  and  say,  if  you  can, 
H.  O.  W.  it  is,  by  what  magical  plan 
He  edges  with  wisdom  the  blade  of  his  wit ; 
Gives  his  neatly-cut  satire  its  delicate  fit ; 
Fuses  humor  with  pathos,  a  mixture  so  fine, 
Heads  are"  cleared  and  hearts  touched,  as  by  sub 
tlest  of  wine. 

You  cannot  tell  how  ?     Well,  then,  W.  H.  O.  ? 
Who  is  he  ?     His  masterly  lyrics  we  know  ; 
We  learned  in  our  childhood  the  charm  of  his  page, 
And  his  verse  does  not  show  yet  one  sign   of  old 

age: 
Though  our  own  heads  may  whiten,  he  makes  us  feel 

young 
With   his    songs,   through   all    seasons    so    cheerily 

sung. 


O.    W.    H.  179 

Go  back  to  the  O.  W.  H.,  that  so  long, 

As  a  key,  has  unlocked  for  us  story  and  song  ! 

With  the  tools  that  he  uses  no  tyro  need  play ; 

He  is  —  just  himself  ;  works  in  — just  his  own  way. 

Leave  the  letters  in  order,  —  the  sign  of  our  debt ; 

The  name  that  they  stand  for  we  cannot  forget ! 


GROWING   OLD. 

OLD,  —  we  are  growing  old  : 
Going  on  through  a  beautiful  road, 
Finding  earth  a  more  blessed  abode  ; 
Nobler  work  by  our  hands  to  be  wrought, 
Freer  paths  for  our  hope  and  our  thought. 
Because  of  the  beauty  the  years  unfold, 

We  are  cheerfully  growing  old ! 

Old,  —  we  are  growing  old  : 
Going  up  where  the  sunshine  is  clear ; 
Watching  grander  horizons  appear 
Out  of  clouds  that  enveloped  our  youth  ; 
Standing  firm  on  the  mountains  of  truth. 
Because  of  the  glory  the  years  unfold, 
We  are  joyfully  growing  old. 

Old,  —  we  are  growing  old  : 
Going  in  to  the  gardens  of  rest 
That  glow  through  the  gold  of  the  West, 


GROWING    OLD.  l8l 

Where  the  rose  and  the  amaranth  blend, 
And  each  path  is  the  way  to  a  friend. 
Because  of  the  peace  that  the  years  unfold, 
We  are  thankfully  growing  old. 

Old,  —  are  we  growing  old  ? 
Life  blooms,  as  we  travel  on 
Up  the  hills,  into  fresh,  lovely  dawn  : 
We  are  children,  who  do  but  begin 
The  sweetness  of  living  to  win. 
Because  heaven  is  in  us,  to  bud  and  unfold, 

We  are  younger,  for  growing  old  ! 


A  PRAIRIE  NEST. 

WHEN  youth  was  in  its  May-day  prime, 

Life's  blossoming  and  singing  time, 

While  heart  and  hope  made  cheerful  chime, 

We  dropped  into  our  cottage  nest 

Upon  a  prairie's  mighty  breast, 

Soft  billowing  towards  the  unknown  West. 

Green  earth  beneath,  blue  sky  above ! 
Through  verdure  vast  the  hidden  dove 
Sent  plaintively  her  moan  of  love. 
South  wind  and  sunshine  filled  the  air ; 
Thought  flew  in  widening  curves,  to  share 
The  large,  sweet  calmness  everywhere. 

In  space  two  confluent  rivers  made  — 
Kaskaskia,  that  far  southward  strayed, 
And  Mississippi,  sunk  in  shade 
Of  level  twilights  —  nestled  we, 
As  in  the  cleft  branch  of  a  tree  ; 
Green  grass,  blue  sky,  all  we  could  see. 


A    PRAIRIE    NEST.  183 

Torch-like,  our  garden  plot  illumed 
The  sea-like  waste,  when  sunset  gloomed  ; 
Its  homely  scents  the  night  perfumed ; 
And  through  the  long,  bright  noontide  hours 
Its  tints  outblazed  the  prairie  flowers  : 
Gay,  gay  and  glad,  that  nest  of  ours  ! 

Our  marigolds,  our  poppies  red, 
Straggling  away  from  their  trim  bed, 
With  phlox  and  larkspur  rioted  ; 
And  we,  fresh-hearted,  every  day 
Found  fantasies  wherewith  to  play, 
As  daring  and  as  free  as  they. 

The  drumming  grouse  ;  the  whistling  quail ; 

Wild  horses  prancing  down  the  gale ; 

A  lonely  tree,  that  seemed  a  sail 

Far  out  at  sea  ;  a  cabin-spark, 

Winking  at  us  across  the  dark ; 

The  wolf's  cry,  like  a  watch-dog's  bark ; 

And  sometimes  sudden  jet  and  spire 

Belting  the  horizon  in  with  fire, 

That  writhed  and  died  in  serpent-gyre,  — 

Without  a  care  we  saw,  we  heard ; 

To  dread  or  pleasure  lightly  stirred 

As,  in  mid-flight,  the  homeward  bird. 


184  A    PRAIRIE    NEST. 

The  stars  hung  low  above  our  roof ; 

Rainbow  and  cloud-film  wrought  a  woof 

Of  glory  round  us,  danger-proof  : 

It  sometimes  seemed  as  if  our  cot 

Were  the  one  safe,  selected  spot 

Whereon  Heaven  centred  steadiest  thought. 

Man  was  afar,  but  God  close  by ; 
And  we  might  fold  our  wings,  or  fly, 
Beneath  the  sun,  his  open  eye ; 
With  bird  and  breeze  in  brotherhood, 
We  simply  felt  and  understood 
That  earth  was  fair,  that  He  was  good. 

Nature,  so  full  of  secrets  coy, 
Wrote  out  the  mystery  of  her  joy 
On  those  broad  swells  of  Illinois. 
Her  virgin  heart  to  Heaven  was  true ; 
We  trusted  Heaven  and  her,  and  knew 
The  grass  was  green,  the  skies  were  blue, 

And  life  was  sweet !     What  find  we  more 
In  wearying  quest  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
Ah,  gracious  memory  !  to  restore 
Our  golden  West,  its  sun,  its  showers, 
And  that  gay  little  nest  of  ours 
Dropped  down  among  the  prairie  flowers  ! 


A  WHISPER    OF   MEMORY. 

How  shall  I  bless  thee,  unforgotten  friend  ? 

A  continent  holds  us  asunder  here  : 
They  say  that  souls  like  meeting  drops  will  blend 

In  heaven  ;  but  I  thy  earthly  way  would  cheer. 

Let  me  be  unto  thee  like  a  fresh  dawn 

After  a  summer  night  of  gentle  rain, 
When  stifling  droughts  of  yesterday  are  gone, 

And  cool  and  dewy  growths  arise  again  ; 

Or  like  a  streamlet  whispering  down  a  hill 

Secrets  it  hath  from  mountain-summits  brought ; 

Playing  about  thy  footsteps,  pure  and  still,  — 
A  voice  that  answers  to  thine  inmost  thought ; 

Or  like  the  Indian  Summer's  laden  air, 

Rich    with    the    fragrance    of   the    whole    year's 

flowers  ; 
A  sky,  with  tints  of  every  season  fair ; 

A  breeze-like  sweetness  of  remembered  hours ! 


1 86  A   WHISPER    OF    MEMORY. 

Ah  !  might  I  dream  such  beauty  in  me  dwelt, 

And  could  surround  thee,  a  new  heaven  and  earth, 

It  were  enough  if  thou  that  influence  felt ; 

To  teach  thee  whence  it  rose  were  little  worth. 

And  yet,  if  somewhat  in  these  lovely  things 

Should  make  thee  breathe  my  name,  and  start  sur 
prised, 
With    smiles    and    tears    that   half-waked    memory 

brings, 
Deep  joy  it  were,  to  be  thus  recognized  ! 


THROUGH    MINNEHAHA'S    VEIL. 

SOME  subtle  coloring  of  the  air 
Lights  every  human  countenance  : 

Some  faces  shine,  transfigured,  where 
A  glorifying  circumstance 

Lifted  them  from  their  common  phase, 

To  fitness  for  an  aureole's  rays. 

Some  single  look  comes  back  to  us, 

Of  eye  and  brow,  through  memory's  blur, 

Re-wakening  dreams  most  beauteous, 
Setting  the  laggard  pulse  astir 

To  feel  that  still  we  hold  it  fast,  — 

The  buried  riches  of  the  past. 

Do  you  recall  our  holiday, 

Just  out  of  school,  in  middle  June,  — 
Far  West,  —  the  time  so  far  away 

We  cannot  now  revive  the  tune 
To  which  our  hearts  so  gayly  beat  ? 
We  only  know  the  song  was  sweet. 


1 88  THROUGH  MINNEHAHA'S  VEIL. 

We  watched  the  mountain-bluffs,  that  stood 
Fleece-wrapped  amid  the  roseate  morn, 

Rising  from  Mississippi's  flood  ; 

We  gazed  where  leagues  on  leagues  of  corn, 

Upon  the  river's  farther  side, 

Tinged  with  warm  gold  the  prairies  wide. 

We  saw  Winona's  precipice 

Hang  dark  above  Lake  Pepin's  wave  : 

Her  plaintive  legend  who  would  miss  ? 
Or  harmless  war-whoop  of  the  brave 

Red-blanketed  and  painted  Sioux, 

That  shot  by  in  his  birch  canoe  ? 

A  step  beyond  the  roadside's  edge,  — 
A  rude  bridge  swung  across  a  stream, 

Sliding  as  softly  from  the  ledge 
As  one  might  whisper  in  a  dream  : 

The  mist-like  water,  falling  there, 

Seemed,  half-way  down,  dissolved  in  air. 

And  where  the  drops  broke  into  spray 
Of  diamonds,  forth  by  millions  flung, 

Wavering  amid  their  wasteful  play, 
A  visionary  rainbow  hung. 

What  need  of  guide's  intrusive  call  ? 

We  knew  it,  —  Minnehaha's  Fall ! 


THROUGH  MINNEHAHA'S  VEIL.  189 

I  had  not  missed  you  from  my  side, 
When  bubbled  up  a  laugh  as  light 

As  out  of  naiad  lips  might  glide  ; 

And  there  you  stood,  a  phantom  bright, 

Veiled  by  the  spray,  a  rosy  elf, 

Merrier  than  Minnehaha's  self. 

Poised  on  the  wet  rock,  in  behind 

The  rainbow,  with  your  face  upturned, 

Color  and  outline  half  defined, 

Your  dancing  eyes,  your  cheek  that  burned 

With  pleasure,  —  I  behold  at  will 

The  airy  apparition  still ! 

Years,  years  ago  !     The  stream  has  spilt 
Billions  of  diamonds  since  that  day; 

Mill,  cabin,  barn,  by  now  are  built 

Close  underneath  that  rainbow  spray  : 

The  lonely  beauty  of  the  place 

Has  passed  from  Minnehaha's  face. 

And  yours,  —  I  never  see  it  now 

Except  as  then,  Time's  blank  between : 

The  sparkling  eye,  the  lifted  brow, 
That  brought  a  soul  into  the  scene, 

And  made  the  Laughing  Water  seem 

Again  a  bright,  embodied  dream. 


igo  THROUGH  MINNEHAHA'S  VEIL. 

I  have  your  picture  in  my  heart,  — 
No  relic,  for  it  lives  and  breathes  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  blow  apart, 

The  wavering  spray  your  forehead  wreathes  ; 

Your  freshness  never  can  grow  pale, 

Blooming  through  Minnehaha's  veil, 


IN  VISION. 

ALTHOUGH  to  me  remains  not  one  regret 
For  lovely  possibilities  that  were  ours, 
Dreamed  out  across  vast  beds  of  prairie-flowers 
Into  the  beckoning  West,  where  the  sun  set, 
A  glowing  magnet,  drawing  our  hearts  on 
As  if  they  were  but  one  heart,  after  him, 
Where  all  our  blending  future  seemed  to  swim 

In  light  unutterable,  a  new  dawn, 
An  opening  Eden,  —  although  it  was  well 
That  picture  faded,  lingers  yet  its  spell. 

And  I  am  glad  I  saw  it,  and  with  thee,  — 
Then  near  as  my  own  spirit,  —  now  as  far 
Removed  into  the  unseen  as  that  calm  star 

Which  looked  across  the  undulant  grassy  sea 
Into  our  faces,  and  sank  out  of  sight. 

We  dreamed  a  dream  together  ;  nothing  more 

To  thee  ;  to  me  a  vision  that  before 

Nor  after  broke  the  seals  of  heavenly  light, 

And  showed  me,  rapt,  life's  beaker  mystical, 

Glimpsed  and  withdrawn,  the  untasted  Holy  Grail. 


1 92  IN    VISION. 

I  gazed  there  at  thy  bidding  :  was  it  wrong  ? 

I  knew  a  separate  path  awaited  me, 

And  I  divined  another  quest  for  thee, 
Under  strange  skies,  where  I  did  not  belong : 

But  for  one  hour,  letting  Doubt  stand  aside, 
I  saw  Life  pass,  transfigured  in  Love's  form  ; 
The  mystery  wherewith  inmost  heaven  is  warm,     . 

Descended,  clothed  in  whiteness,  as  a  bride. 
Though  that  apocalypse  annulled  thy  claim, 
Thine   eyes   yet   burn   their   question    through   its 
flame. 

Had  but  that  fatal  prescience  been  withheld, 
Whereby  To-morrow  evermore  would  rise, 
Laughing  To-day  down  with  relentless  eyes, 

What  beauty  had  we  not  together  spelled 

Out  of  Life's  wonder-book,  — or  else,  what  bale  ! 

The  dream  was  not  fulfilled,  —  could  never  be  ; 

Yet  is  the  vision  light  of  light  to  me, 

Dazzling  to  blankness  the  world's  bridal  tale.  — 

Elsewhere  our  orbits  meet,  receding  star, 

Lost  in  the  dawn  that  floods  me  from  afar ! 


NEED   AND   WISH. 

I  NEED  not  what  I  cannot  have : 

The  north  wind  swept  from  me  this  folly,  - 
With  lazy,  fretful  whine  to  crave 

Some  comfort  against  melancholy, 
Which  haunts  us  all,  when  dreams  go  by 
Of  what  might  be,  if  life  were  other 

Than  life  is  ;  therefore  every  sigh 
In  working-songs  I  strive  to  smother. 

You  need  not  what  you  cannot  have, 

Though  torrid  gusts  of  hopeless  passion 
Amid  your  fancies  moan  and  rave, 

And  mould  your  words  to  fiery  fashion. 
What  if  your  wild  desire  would  seize 

Some  other  heart's  delight  and  glory  ? 
Fate  reigns  not  your  one  will  to  please ; 

Not  yours  the  only  tragic  story. 

None  needs  the  thing  he  cannot  have  : 
The  gods  know  how  to  give  right  measure 
13 


194  NEED    AND    WISH. 

Through  seeming  loss  our  souls  they  save  ; 

They  will  not  leave  us  slaves  of  pleasure. 
Yet  from  his  longings  who  would  rest  ? 

To  claim,  to  seek  with  firm  endeavor, 
Better  that  still  transcends  our  best,  — 

By  this  path  climbs  the  soul  forever. 


THRIFTLESS. 

HE  said,  "  I  will  not  save  ! 

The  liberal  sun 
Is  richer  for  the  light  he  gave 
And  gives  the  world.     I  choose  to  hold 
The  mine,  and  not  to  hoard  the  gold. 

Can  I  be  one 

To  dry  my  heart  to  coffered  dust, 
Or  cling  to  hidden  coin,  a  rust  ? 

"  Ask  June  to  stint  her  bloom 

Against  the  day 
Of  sorrowful  November  gloom  ! 
Free  blossom  yields  abundant  seed ; 
June's  thriftlessness  is  thrift  indeed. 

There  is  no  way 

To  count  November's  added  sighs, 
Should  lavish  June  turn  pennywise. 

"  Among  the  immortal  gods 

Unthrift  is  thrift ; 


THRIFTLESS. 

Worst  poverty  —  with  them  at  odds. 
No  wealth  but  this  :  to  feel  the  flow 
Of  life's  deep  well  to  torrents  grow, 

A  current  swift, 

Whereof  no  lingering  drop  would  stay 
Shut  from  the  generous  flood  away." 

He  said,  "  If  I  give  all 

Open  to  sight, 

The  everything  men  riches  call, 
'T  is  clearing  rubbish  from  my  way 
Into  the  avenues  of  day, 

The  doors  of  light. 
Thriftless  he  can  afford  to  be 
Who  finds  the  universe's  key." 


NO  LOSS. 

WHAT  thou  puttest  by 
Without  a  sigh, 
Is  not  wanted  for  God's  treasury. 

Nor  is  that  a  wise, 

True  sacrifice, 
When  a  stifled  aspiration  dies. 

To  His  poorest,  lest 

Thou  miss  life's  quest, 
Freely  give,  like  Him,  thy  very  best. 

Flame  from  flame  is  caught ; 

Love  grudgeth  naught ; 
Keep,  that  thou  mayest  share,  thy  heaven-lit  thought. 

Go  to,  hungry  heart ! 
Standing  apart, 
Gazing  on  abundance,  starving  art  ? 


1 98  NO  LOSS. 

Never  lay  the  blame 

On  God's  great  name, 
For  the  lack  that  of  thy  choosing  came ! 

Courage  !  serve  and  wait ! 

Soon  or  late, 
Life  restores  the  missing  keys  of  Fate. 

Every  hour  brings  seed 

That,  sown,  will  feed 
Some  half-famished  Future's  eager  need. 

All  thy  unclaimed  gold, 

Riches  untold, 
Time  for  thee  with  usury  will  hold. 

Near  thee,  close  before, 

Opens  a  door  : 
Enter,  heart,  and  hunger  nevermore ! 


WHAT   COMETH? 

'T  is  never  the  expected  guest 

Whose  charmed  approach  rewards  our  waiting 
A  nobler  brings  us  royal  rest ; 

A  meaner  comes,  with  footsteps  grating. 
What  hinders  that,  or  hastens  this  ? 

The  encounter  neither  wholly  chooses  ; 
Thy  friend  for  thee  elected  is,  — 

And  who  the  gift  of  God  refuses  ? 

It  never  is  the  dreaded  pain  : 

Forbear  thy  mad  foretaste  of  sorrow ! 
Thou  fillest  the  Future's  cup  in  vain  ; 

Fate  spills,  to  pour  new  wine  to-morrow. 
And  Fate  is  God,  and  God  is  good ; 

His  bitter  draught  works  perfect  healing. 
Why  look  for  poison  in  thy  food 

When  Love's  own  hand  is  with  thee  dealing  ? 

Never  arrives  the  dreamed-of  joy  ; 
But  something  larger,  deeper,  better, 


200  WHAT    COMETH  ? 

That  makes  thy  old  ideal  a  toy, 

And  binds  thee  with  a  blissful  fetter 

To  the  all-beauteous  soul  of  things.  — 

Hold  steady,  heart,  by  night-storms  shaken  ; 

The  fluttering  hope  that  in  thee  sings, 
To  boundless  freedom  shall  awaken  ! 


A  FRIEND. 

LIFE  offers  no  joy  like  a  friend : 
Fulfillment  and  prophecy  blend 
In  the  throb  of  a  heart  with  our  own,  — 
A  heart  where  we  know  and  are  known. 

Yet  more  than  thy  friend  unto  thee, 
Is  the  friendship  hereafter  to  be, 
When  the  flower  of  thy  life  shall  unfold 
Out  of  hindering  and  darkness  and  cold. 

Love  mocks  thee,  whose  mounting  desire 
Doth  not  to  the  Perfect  aspire  ; 
Nor  lovest  thou  the  soul  thou  wouldst  \\in 
To  shut  with  thine  emptiness  in. 

A  friend  !     Deep  is  calling  to  deep ! 
A  friend  !     The  heart  wakes  from  its  sleep, 
To  behold  the  worlds  lit  by  one  face  ; 
With  one  heavenward  step  to  keep  pace. 


2O2  A    FRIEND. 


O  Heart  wherein  all  hearts  are  known, 
Whose  infinite  throb  stirs  our  own  ! 
O  Friend  beyond  friends  !  what  are  we, 
Who  ask  so  much  less,  yet  have  Thee  ! 


MY  FEAR. 

BEYOND  the  boundaries  of  the  grave  send  I 

A  single  fear,  — 

One  only,  for  myself.     Beneath  God's  eye 
The  eternal  mountains  rise  in  sunshine  clear, 
And  through  unwithering  woodlands,  far  and  near, 
Float  hymns  of  happy  souls,  like  bird-songs  high. 

Somewhere  in  that  large,  beautiful  Unknown, 

My  place  will  be  ; 
And  somewhere,  clasped  within  its  boundless  zone, 

0  spirits  I  have  clung  to  here,  will  ye 
Fulfill  your  dreams  of  immortality; 
My  fear  is,  to  be  left  of  you  alone. 

1  know  not  what  awaits,  of  bliss  or  bale ; 

I  only  know 

That  of  God's  guardianship  no  soul  can  fail : 
But,  whether  on  dusk  oceans  drifted  slow, 
Or  swift  through  populous  starry  streets  we  go, 
Welcome  will  be  loved  voices,  calling,  "  Hail !  " 


2O4  MY    FEAR. 

We  mortals  veil  such  depths  of  loneliness 

With  outward  calm, 

And  with  the  hope  of  heaven's  complete  redress 
For  earthly  losses  !     Failing  of  that  balm, 
How  can  we  have  the  heart  for  chant  or  psalm, 
Or  read  our  life  as  more  than  meaningless  ? 

Yet  noble  work  will  there  go  nobly  on  ; 

For  love  and  thought 

Will  find  a  grander  scope  when  earth  is  gone : 
Mine,  haply,  must  in  solitude  be  wrought, 
Or  with  heaven's  foreigners  :  I  may  be  brought 
Never  to  those  I  knew,  time's  road  upon. 

You,  best  beloved,  may  new  neighbors  find, 

Whose  gifts  will  blend 

With  every  upward  reach  of  heart  and  mind : 
Toiling  among  them  for  some  glorious  end, 
Perhaps  you  wholly  will  forget  the  friend 
You  walked  with,  in  green  pastures  left  behind. 

Shall  we  then  grow  more  saintly,  waxing  cold 

And  deaf  to  all 

The  tenderness  that  breathing  lips  have  told  ? 
Doth  not  God  speak  in  every  human  call  ? 
Loss  is  it,  from  one  trusted  heart  to  fall, 
Though  shipwrecked  among  splendors  manifold. 


MY    FEAR.  2O5 

Still,  in  that  ample  realm,  none  may  intrude 

On  the  domain 

Of  separate,  inmost  being :  if  he  could, 
We  should  wish  back  our  mortal  shells  again, 
For  shelter  and  seclusion  ;  should  complain, 
Might  we  not  sometimes  hide,  even  from  the  good. 

And  who  the  dearest  of  his  friends  would  bind 

Unto  his  side 

In  any  world,  without  a  willing  mind  ? 
Who.  needs  me  not,  must  not  with  me  abide, 
Howe'er  my  need  may  seem.     Since  God  is  guide, 
Each  pilgrim  soul  his  lonely  way  shall  find  : 

And  in  the  untravelled  wilderness  shall  bloom 

Life's  perfect  rose. 

A  Heart  divinely  human  through  the  gloom 
Throbs  like  a  guiding  footstep, — warms  and  glows, 
Until  the  dark  with  dayspring  overflows, 
And  the  bowed  soul  is  crowned  with  blissful  doom. 

And  so  I  drop  at  last  my  single  fear ; 

In  His  sweet  will 

Hiding  my  own  heart's  dream,  however  dear  : 
All  that  concerneth  me  will  He  fulfill ; 
No  drop  of  joy  His  steady  hand  can  spill  : 
Nor  do  I  wait  for  heaven,  since  heaven  is  here. 


COME  HOME!1 

COME  home  with  me,  beloved,  — 

Home  to  the  heart  of  God  ! 
In  lonely,  separate  by-ways 

We  long  enough  have  trod. 
Away  from  rest  and  shelter 

Why  should  we  further  press  ? 
The  end  of  our  self-seeking 

Is  only  homelessness. 

Come  home  with  me,  beloved ! 

God's  children  have  but  one ; 
Its  windows  glow  and  glisten, 

Lit  from  beyond  the  sun  : 
Its  golden  hearth  fires  beckon 

To  all,  and  aye  to  each 

1  "  Then  I  said  in  my  heart,  '  Come  home  with  me,  beloved,  — 
there  is  but  one  home  for  us  all.  When  we  find  —  in  proportion  as 
each  of  us  finds  —  that  home,  shall  we  be  gardens  of  delight  to  each 
other,  little  chambers  of  rest,  galleries  of  pictures,  wells  of  water.'  "  — 
MacDonald's  Seaboard  Parish. 


COME  HOME!  207 

In  deserts  deep  entangled, 
Where  but  His  eye  can  reach. 

Come  home  with  me,  beloved  ! 

These  earthly  homes  of  ours 
Lift  up  their  dull  clay  turrets 

To  hide  heaven's  pearly  towers. 
We  stay  shut  in,  distrustful, 

Behind  our  threshold  line ; 
But  He,  with  boundless  welcome, 

Flings  wide  His  gates  divine. 

Come  home  with  me,  beloved  ! 

The  dearest  of  the  dear 
Is  never  comprehended 

Or  rightly  measured  here : 
But  we  shall  know  each  other 

At  last,  grown  pure  and  wise, 
Reading  Truth's  radiant  secret 

With  Love's  enlightened  eyes. 

Come  home  with  me,  beloved ! 

Each  in  that  house  shall  have 
His  own  peculiar  chamber, 

Filled  with  the  gifts  He  gave,  — 
The  mansion's  Lord,  our  Father  ; 

While,  sons  and  princes  there, 


2O8  COME    HOME ! 

Each  royally  with  others 
His  blessedness  shall  share. 

Come  home  with  me,  beloved,  — 

Home  to  God's  waiting  heart  ! 
In  gladness  met  together 

From  paths  too  long  apart, 
Strangers  no  more,  but  brethren, 

One  life  with  Him  to  live  ; 
Eternally  receiving, 

Eternally  to  give ! 


BEFRIENDED. 

MY  heart  records  thee  friend,  yet  through  no  word 
Spoken  in  side-by-side  companionship  : 
Reproof  or  commendation  from  thy  lip 

Never  my  heart  with  pleasant  trouble  stirred 
Because  it  was  thy  special  gift  to  me ; 
A  larger  blessing  have  I  won  from  thee. 

I  heard  thee  speak  out  of  diviner  air 

Than  selfishness  can  breathe  in,  and  I  rose, 
And  saw  the  gates  of  heavenly  truth  unclose, 

Glad  with  the  multitude  the  feast  to  share, 
Spread  for  all  souls  within.     No  narrow  claim 
Could  wish  of  mine  in  that  pure  vision  frame. 

Thou  didst  befriend  me,  humbled  at  the  sight 
Of  that  great  Love  which  penetrates  the  need 
Of  every  feeblest  creature  ;  which  indeed 

Lifts  back  into  the  brotherhood  of  light 
Benighted  and  neglected  souls,  to  trace 
Their  Godlike  lineage  in  Christ's  dear  face. 


2IO  BEFRIENDED. 

In  that  communion  of  unselfishness 

Which  is  content  its  own  delight  to  lose, 
So  through  some  weaker  being  to  transfuse 

The  breath  it  lives  by,  —  that  high  blessedness 
Wherein  faith's  answer  is  at  last  complete,  — 
My  soul  arose,  and  went  thy  soul  to  meet. 

How  idle  then  seemed  earth's  small  jealousies  ; 

How  pitiful  the  fret  of  "  mine  "  and  "  thine  "  ! 

The  delicate  draught  of  adulation's  wine, 
The  subtle  poison  of  sweet  flatteries, 

Take   nor   bestow  thou,  friend,  if  thou   wouldst 
know 

How  hearts  in  blessing  hearts  may  overflow. 

The  world  has  not  learned  friendship's  meaning  yet ; 

Little  indeed  is  all  thou  hast  to  give, 

If  it  is  but  thine  own ;  but  bid  me  live 
Largeness  of  life  beyond  thee,  and  my  debt 

Eternally  uncancelled  will  remain, 

And  we,  though  strangers,  have  not  met  in  vain. 

Show  me  that  aspiration  need  not  die, 

Nor  faith  put  out  its  eyes  to  walk  by  sight  ; 
Lead  me  into  the  freedom  of  the  light, 

And  I  could  let  thee  pass  on  cheerfully 

To  souls  whose  need  was  greater,  though  thy  face 
Had  been  the  sunshine  of  my  dwelling  place. 


BEFRIENDED.  211 

For  friendship  is  not  ours  to  lock  away 

In  stifling  chests,  for  fear  of  thievish  hands  ; 
It  is  a  generous  sun-warmth,  that  expands 

The  soul  it  flows  through,  turning  night  to  day,  — 
Light  given  to  us  to  give  abroad  again, 
Till  none  in  unblessed  darkness  shall  remain. 

A  friend,  —  it  is  another  name  for  God, 
Whose  love  inspires  all  love,  is  all  in  all : 
Profane  it  not,  lest  lowest  shame  befall ! 

Worship  no  idol,  whether  star  or  clod  ! 
Nor  think  that  any  friend  is  truly  thine, 
Save  as  life's  closest  link  with  Love  Divine. 

Thou  art  no  stranger,  thou  whose  soul  I  heard 
Speak  to  my  soul  across  earth's  vexing  din ; 
With  thee  I  to  the  Holiest  entered  in  : 

Through  thee  I  understood  the  Master's  word, 
Which  the  whole  heavenly  with  the  human  blends 
In  deathless  union,  —  "  I  have  called  you  friends." 


F.  W.  R. 

BOOKS  are  as  waymarks  for  us,  looking  back 

Far  up  and  down  the  road  : 
There  rested  we,  out  of  the  beaten  track, 

Where  a  clear  streamlet  flowed, 
And  in  the  running  brook  a  message  heard, 

Limpid  as  truth,  and  sweet 
As  to  the  waiting  angels,  God's  dear  word  : 

And  there  our  hill-side  seat 
Took  in  horizons,  felt  the  mysteries 

Of  the  untrodden  height, 
While  every  leaf  in  all  the  sheltering  trees 

Stirred  us  to  strange  delight. 

Leaves  for  the  healing  of  the  nations,  thrilled 

By  the  Eternal  Breath,  — 

Under  their  strengthening  shade  our  hearts  were 
stilled, 

Nor  dreaded  life  or  death, 
But  only  felt  God's  presence,  —  only  saw 

The  ever-widening  scope 


F.    W.    R.  213 

Of  Being  whose  perfection  is  our  law, 

Who  lifts  our  human  hope 
To  His  own  infinite,  close  neighborhood, 

By  humble  pathways  plain, 
Through  very  simpleness  misunderstood  :  — 

Such  books  none  write  in  vain. 

There  are  who  fear  lest  thought  should  be  too  free : 

Yet,  in  this  world  of  His, 
Who  does  God's  will  may  share  His  liberty ; 

Light  for  its  seeker  is. 
O  Robertson  !  thy  life  was  in  thy  creed, 

That  love  is  sacrifice  ; 
That  all  the  ways  of  wisdom  Christ-ward  lead ; 

That  man  lives,  when  self  dies  ! 
Soldier-apostle  !  flashes  through  thy  page 

Truth's  keen  Ithuriel  flame  ; 
And  thine  the  heart  of  a  believing  age 

Links  with  its  Saviour's  name. 


SHOW  ME  THY  WAY. 

DARK  the  night,  the  snow  is  falling ; 
Through  the  storm  are  voices  calling ; 
Guides  mistaken  and  misleading, 
Far  from  home  and  help  receding ; 
Vain  is  all  those  voices  say  : 
Show  me  Thy  way ! 

Blind  am  I  as  those  who  guide  me  ; 
Let  me  feel  Thee  close  beside  me  .' 
Come  as  light  into  my  being  ! 
Unto  me  be  eyes,  All-Seeing ! 

Hear  my  heart's  one  wish,  I  pray  : 
Show  me  Thy  way  ! 

Son  of  Man  and  Lord  Immortal, 
Opener  of  the  heavenly  portal, 
In  Thee  all  my  hope  is  hidden  ; 
Never  yet  was  soul  forbidden 
Near  Thee,  always  near,  to  stay  : 
Show  me  Thy  way  ! 


SHOW    ME    THY   WAY.  215 

Thou  art  Truth's  eternal  morning ; 
Led  by  Thee,  all  evil  scorning, 
Through  the  paths  of  pure  salvation, 
I  shall  find  Thy  habitation, 

Whence  I  never  more  shall  stray : 
Show  me  Thy  way ! 

Thou  must  lead  me,  and  none  other  ; 
Truest  Lover,  Friend,  and  Brother, 
Thou  art  my  soul's  shelter,  whether 
Stars  gleam  out  or  tempests  gather ; 
In  Thy  presence  night  is  day : 
Show  me  Thy  way  ! 


THE   HEART   OF   GOD. 

O  LIFE,  that  breathest  in  all  sweet  things 
That  bud  and  bloom  upon  the  earth, 

That  fillest  the  sky  with  songs  and  wings, 
That  walkest  the  world  through  human  birth ; 

O  Life,  that  lightest  in  every  man 
A  spark  of  Thine  own  being's  flame, 

And  wilt  that  spark  to  glory  fan, 

Our  listening  souls  would  hear  Thy  name. 

Thou  art  the  Eternal  Christ  of  God,  — 

The  Life  unending,  unbegun  ; 
The  Deity  brightening  through  the  clod ; 

The  presence  of  the  Invisible  One. 

Though  dear  traditions  wrap  Thee  round 

In  Bethlehem  and  in  Nazareth, 
With  every  soul  Thy  home  is  found, 

On  every  shore  of  life  and  death. 


THE    HEART    OF    GOD.  217 

Before  the  pyramids  were  built, 

Before  the  time  of  Abraham, 
To  the  world's  first-born,  blind  with  guilt, 

Thou  earnest,  the  enlightening  word,  "  I  AM." 

To  free  from  sin's  entangling  mesh 

Our  wandering  race,  Thy  brethren  dear, 

Thou  veiledst  Thyself  in  mortal  flesh,  — 
A  man  with  men  Thou  didst  appear. 

The  voice  that  unto  poet  and  sage 
Whispered  of  God  at  hand,  unknown, 

Hath  written  itself  on  history's  page, 
Speaks  in  a  language  like  our  own ; 

Speaks  to  us  now,  from  day  to  day, 

Wafts  heavenly  peace  through  earthly  care ; 

Inspires  our  faint  humanity 

Thy  crown  to  seek,  Thy  cross  to  bear. 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  in  brook  and  bird, 

And  boughs  that  over  our  home-roofs  bend ; 

And  dear  in  every  kindly  word, 

Borne  from  the  lip  of  friend  to  friend. 

Thy  smile  is  in  the  wayside  flower, 
That  opens  like  a  child's  blue  eye, 


2l8  THE    HEART    OF    GOD. 

Not  less  than  in  the  sunset  hour, 

When  breathless  wonder  thrills  the  sky. 

Thou  livest,  most  human,  most  Divine  ! 

To  no  veiled  Fate  or  Force  we  bow  : 
Far  off  God's  blinding  splendors  shine ; 

His  near,  deep  tenderness  art  Thou  ! 

His  heart,  whose  truth  can  never  fail, 
However  ours  may  change  or  stray ; 

Before  whose  love  all  friendships  pale ; 
Our  trust  when  worlds  and  suns  decay. 

For  love  remains,  whatever  dies  ; 

The  love  that  breathed  us  into  bloom, 
And  set  us  in  the  eternities, 

To  fill  their  void  with  life's  perfume. 

Revealer  of  our  being's  design, 

Through  Thee,  because  of  Thee,  we  are  : 
Sacred  our  life,  since  it  is  Thine ; 

No  hopeless  blight  its  growth  shall  mar. 

Into  the  awful  vague  of  death 

We  follow,  where  Thou  leadest  the  way ; 
Feel,  through  its  damps,  Thy  living  breath, 

See  Thee  flood  all  its  dark  with  day. 


THE    HEART    OF    GOD.  2IQ 

We  follow,  and  we  find  our  own, 

Whom  the  grave  covered  from  our  sight ; 

We  know  them,  even  as  we  are  known, 

Clothed  on  with  Heaven's  transfiguring  light. 

O  Love,  O  Friend,  our  toil  is  sweet, 
Our  burden  light,  for  Thou  art  near ; 

And  Nature's  harmonies  repeat 
Thy  Name,  to  every  creature  dear. 

O  Love,  O  Friend,  Thy  name  is  God  ! 

Lord  of  the  unseen  and  the  known  ! 
Thy  thoughts  the  universe  have  trod, 

With  worlds  like  sands  of  silver  strown. 

The  lonely  spheres  cry  out  to  Thee 

To  multiply  Thy  life  in  them  : 
Souls  worthier  than  the  stars  must  be 

To  sparkle  in  Thy  diadem. 

There  are  who  hold  Thy  truth,  and  yet 

Thyself  disown,  its  origin  ; 
Thee  as  a  stranger  they  have  met, 

Nor  recognized  the  Guest  within. 

And  some  who  seem  to  hear  are  deaf ; 
Lip-service  mocks  thy  sacrifice ; 


22O  THE    HEART    OF    GOD. 

Unlovingness  is  unbelief ; 
Untruthful  lives  are  heresies. 

But  where  men  aim  at  noblest  things, 
Where  beats  a  pure  and  generous  heart, 

Where  thought  leads  up  on  heavenward  wings, 
There,  Saviour  of  the  world,  Thou  art ! 

One  God  to  all  eternity, 

Thou  livest,  the  Only  and  the  Same  ; 
Yet  ever  to  humanity 

Art  dearest  by  Thy  human  name. 

Weary  of  system  and  of  plan, 

Life  of  our  life,  we  turn  to  Thee  ; 

Divine  Ideal  of  struggling  man, 
Help  us  in  man  Thy  face  to  see  ! 

Lead  us  through  these  bewildering  ways 
Of  pain  and  beauty  Thou  hast  trod  ! 

Thou  art  our  creed,  our  prayer,  our  praise, 
Christ,  the  Omnipotent  Heart  of  God  ! 


INDWELLING. 

O  SPIRIT  whose  name  is  the  Saviour, 
Come  enter  this  spirit  of  mine, 

And  make  it  forever  Thy  dwelling, 
A  home  wherein  all  things  are  Thine ! 

O  Son  of  the  Father  Eternal, 

Once  with  us,  a  Friend  and  a  Guest, 

Abide  in  Thine  own  human  mansion, 
Its  Joy  and  its  Hope  and  its  Rest ! 

Leave  in  me  no  darkness  unlighted, 
Unwarmed  by  Thy  truth's  holy  fire  — 

No  thought  which  Thou  canst  not  inhabit 
No  purpose  Thou  dost  not  inspire  ! 

Shut  in  unto  silence,  my  midnight 
Is  dawn,  if  Thy  Presence  I  see ; 

When  I  open  my  doors  to  Thy  coming, 
Lo !  all  things  are  radiant  with  Thee. 


222  INDWELLING. 


O  what  is  so  sweet  as  to  love  Thee, 
And  live  with  Thee  always  in  sight  ? 

Lord,  enter  this  house  of  my  being, 
And  fill  every  room  with  Thy  light ! 


PRAYING   ALWAYS. 

SOUL  of  our  souls,  only  by  Thee 

The  way  we  see 
Through  earth's  entangling  mystery  ; 

We  nothing  know ; 
But  prayer  unbars   heaven's   gate,  and   Thou  dost 

show 
The  one  sure  path  in  which  we  ought  to  go. 

And  this  is  prayer ;  from  self  to  turn 

Thee-ward,  and  learn 
Our  life's  veiled  angels  to  discern. 

Filled  with  Thy  light 
We  hate  the  damning  evil,  love  the  right : 
Awake  with  Thee,  there  is  in  us  no  night. 

Were  ours  the  wish,  as  vain  as  strange, 

Thy  will  to  change, 
Or  Thy  least  purpose  disarrange,  — 

This  were  not  prayer, 
But  only  a  rebellious  heart  laid  bare, 
Insanely  choosing  curses  for  its  share. 


224  PRAYING   ALWAYS. 

Thou  present  God  !  to  Thee  we  speak  : 

Weary  and  weak, 
Thy  strength  Divine  we  struggling  seek  ! 

Thou  wilt  attend 

To  every  faintest  sigh  we  upward  send  ; 
Thou  talkest  with  our  thoughts,  as  friend  with  friend. 

The  battle  of  our  life  is  won, 

And  heaven  begun, 
When  we  can  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

But,  Lord,  until 

These  restless  hearts  in  Thy  deep  love  are  still, 
We  pray  thee,  "  Teach  us  how  to  do  Thy  will !  " 

We  cry  with  Ajax,  Give  us  light ! 

A  glimpse,  a  sight 
Of  midnight  foes  that  we  must  fight ! 

They  hide  within, 

They  lurk  without,  the  subtle  hordes  of  sin  : 
By  mortal  might,  shall  no  man  victory  win. 

The  prayer  of  faith  availeth  much  : 

Thou  hearest  such : 
Thy  hand  we  in  the  darkness  touch. 

Oh,  not  apart 

Stayest  Thou  on  some  high  throne,  all-loving  Heart ! 
Helper  in  times  of  need,  we  know  Thou  art. 


PRAYING    ALWAYS.  225 

Nor  nursing  each  our  own  distress, 

To  Thee  we  press  ; 
Prayer's  overflow  drowns  selfishness  : 

Soul  within  soul, 

One  voice  to  Thee  our  linked  petitions  roll ; 
Healer  of  the  world's  hurt,  oh,  make  as  whole ! 

And  when  arise  serener  days, 

Whose  air  is  praise, 
The  song  of  thankfulness  we  raise 

On  high  shall  be, 

Not  that  to  some  vast  All  we  bend  the  knee, 
But  that  each  soul  has  one  sure  friend  in  Thee. 

Soul  of  our  souls,  with  boundless  cheer 

Forever  near, 
Our  being's  breath  and  atmosphere,  — 

The  world  seems  bleak 
Only  when  shelter  in  drear  self  we  seek : 
The  joy  of  life  is,  man  to  Thee  may  speak  ! 


CHRIST  THE   LIGHT. 

OUT  of  labyrinths  of  thought, 

Where  bewildering  gleams  confuse, 
From  our  wanderings  have  we  brought 

Only  broken,  tangled  clews  : 
But  this  one  thing  certain  is, — 

In  Thy  world,  O  God,  Thou  art  ! 
Wearied  with  earth's  mysteries, 

We  would  rest  upon  Thy  heart ! 

Thou,  Immanuel,  God  with  us, 

Feelest  all  our  human  need  : 
From  Thy  guidance  glorious 

Let  no  falsehood  us  mislead  ! 
Only  by  Thy  breath  alive  — 

Only  through  Thy  life  complete  — 
Help  us  upward  still  to  strive, 

In  the  prints  of  Thy  dear  feet ! 

As  the  planets  to  the  sun, 

We  would  moor  our  souls  to  Thee ! 


CHRIST    THE    LIGHT.  22/ 

Kindle  us,  All-Heavenly  One, 

Torches  of  Thy  truth  to  be  ! 
Thou  in  our  humanity, 

We  as  rays  of  Thee  to  shine, 
Centred,  fixed,  sustained  in  Thee, 

Light  supreme  and  Life  Divine  ! 


A   STRAY  LEAF. 

IN  Eastern  legend,  the  good  Mussulman 
Saves  every  parchment-shred  beneath  his  feet, 
Hoping  thereon  great  Allah's  name  to  meet. 

Is  not  the  Book  of  Life  yet  incomplete  ? 

Who  looks  abroad,  its  scattered  leaves  may  find 

Flying  upon  the  wild  wings  of  the  wind. 

Though  torn,  though  hidden  unseemly  blots  behind, 
Each  soul  of  man  reveals  the  Name  Divine. 
Leaves  of  His  volume  are  thy  being  and  mine  : 

Leaves  of  His  Book,  and  parts  of  His  great  plan.  — 
Dear  Father,  Thy  handwriting  make  us  see 
On  each  soiled  fragment  of  humanity  ! 


NOT  PURE,  BUT  PURIFIED. 

How  cleanse  a  heart  that  is  defiled  ? 

God  may  forgive  the  sin, 
But  guilt  is  canker,  and  eats  in ; 
Is  tempest,  bringing  shipwreck  wild  : 
Yet  only  as  a  little  child 

Shall  man  His  kingdom  win. 

The  pearl  of  innocence,  once  lost, 

Can  never  be  replaced 
Upon  the  brow  its  whiteness  graced  : 
Yet  unto  swine  such  pearls  are  tossed  ; 
And  earth  is  paved  with  gems  of  cost, 

Scattered  in  spendthrift  waste. 

Alas !  we  cannot  purely  love  — 

We  cannot  nobly  hate  : 
Our  tears  of  blood  are  wept  too  late  : 
With  halting  steps  we  upward  move, 
Fearing  lest  even  our  house  above 

Be  left  us  desolate. 


23O  NOT    PURE,    BUT    PURIFIED. 

And  if  there  were  no  Voice  to  say, 
"  Go  thou,  and  sin  no  more  ! 

Love,  that  forgives,  can  all  restore  ; 

Thou  art  made  whole  !  "  —  could  any  stay 

Heart-bare  beneath  truth's  probing  ray, 
Unscathed  by  terrors  sore  ? 

O  Christ !  the  memory  of  our  sin 

Thy  healing  love  will  hide  : 
With  Thee  our  souls  in  peace  abide  : 
In  Thee  heaven's  childhood  we  begin  : 
Thy  Kingdom  we  shall  enter  in, 
Not  pure,  but  purified  ! 


MYRA.1 

DESPAIR  not  thou  of  any  fallen  soul's  fate, 

Till  thou  hast  knelt  beside  it  in  the  mire, 
And  mingled  with  its  meanings  desolate 

The  heavenward  whisper  of  thy  heart's  desire; 
Till  thou  hast  felt  it  thrill  with  thine  own  faith 

In  Him  who  looks  not  on  us  as  we  are, 
But  wakes  the  immortal  in  us  by  His  breath, 

And  puts  remembrance  of  our  sins  afar. 

The  noblest  creature  of  a  human  birth 

Rose  to  its  beauteous  dignity  of  place, 
Not  without  many  a  lingering  stain  of  earth,    . 

Wherein  all  souls  are  set,  a  little  space  ; 
And  thou  into  the  haunts  of  shame  and  crime 

Like  an  awakening  breeze  of  Heaven  mayest  go, 
Knowing  that  out  of  blackest  depths  of  slime 

May  spring  up  lilies  whiter  than  the  snow. 

1  A  true  story,  —  a  reminiscence  of  the  North  End  Mission  in 
Boston,  some  ten  years  since.  Myra  is  still  living  a  happy  and  useful 
life,  in  a  country  home. 


232  MYRA. 

It  was  a  dreary,  gusty  day  in  March : 

A  motley  group  were  gathered  in  a  room 
Of  a  vile  street,  where  curses  blurred  the  arch 

Of  bending  heaven,  and  stained  its  azure  bloom 
With  the  foul  breath  of  throats  on  fire  with  hell; 

Yet  here  together  had  they  come  to  pray  — 
Wretches  who  knew  the  Name  blasphemed  too  well, 

And  saints  who  leaned  on  it  for  staff  and  stay. 

A  dark-haired  girl  sat  with  bowed  head  alone, 

Stifling  the  sobs  that  shook  her  slender  frame, 
When  one  arose,  and  told,  in  humbled  tone, 

How,   tired    and  sick,  to    God's   large   house  he 

came, 
And  as  a  son  at  once  was  made  at  home  ! 

'T  was  agony  to  hear  of  Heaven's  lost  wealth  ; 
They   tortured  her,    those   white   souls,    beckoning 
"  Come  ! " 

And  she  arose,  and  sought  the  door  by  stealth. 

Myra  !     Her  young  life's  freshness  trailed  through 
sin,  — 

Its  perfume  changed  to  stench  and  loathliness, — 
Soiled  to  thought's  inmost  vesture,  —  can  she  win 

The  heart  of  Him  who  hates  unrighteousness  ? 
Within,  those  pleading  accents  still  went  on  ; 

Outside,  unseemly  mirth  defiled  the  air; 


MYRA.  233 

Behind    her,    Life's   closed    gate ;    before,   Death's 

yawn ; 
Whichever  way  she  turned,  some  new  despair ! 

A  woman's  step  approaches,  undismayed; 

A  woman's  voice  is  whispering,  "  Return  ! " 
A  woman's  hand  is  on  her  shoulder  laid  ; 

And  "  Myra  !  "  murmur  stainless  lips  that  yearn 
To  breathe  their  blessing  through  a  sister's  woe. 

"  Nay,  let  me  be  ! "  the  wretched  Myra  cries  ; 
"  You   would   not   touch    my   garments    could  you 
know 

How  sunk  I  am  —  too  low  even  to  despise  ! 

"  Hell  seethes  around  me  in  this  dreadful  street ; 

Into  it  let  me  plunge,  it  is  my  place  ; 
Heaven's  pavement  is  too  pure  for  my  false  feet, 

And  earth  has  nothing  for  me  but  disgrace." 
"  But,  Myra,  think  !     It  is  not  I  that  speak ; 

The  message  is  from  Christ,  the  Undefiled  ; 
Behold  His  hand  put  forth  through  mine  to  seek 

And  lead  you  back!    Come  home  to  Him,  poor 
child  !  " 

And  tenderly  a  warm  white  hand  is  laid 
In  outcast  Myra's ;  and  the  eyes  that  bend 


234  MYRA. 

From  blue  serenity  their  proffered  aid  — 

She  knows  them  for  the  true  eyes  of  a  friend  ; 

And  through  them,  in  that  moment,  seems  to  break 
A  glimpse  of  her  own  purified  womanhood  ; 

Therein  doth  some  divine  suggestion  make 
Celestial  possibilities  understood. 

The  eyes,  the  hand  remove  not ;  and  once  more, 

Following,  she  knows  not  how,  the  way  they  lead, 
The  threshold  crossed,  she  is  within  the  door  : 

She  murmurs  :  "Is  there  hope  for  me,  indeed  ?  " 
And  every  knee  is  by  one  impulse  bowed; 

And  every  heart  goes  up  for  her  in  prayer ; 
And  Myra  speaks  her  soul's  resolve  aloud, 

Casting  aside,  with  fear,  her  vast  despair. 

Crushed  and  ashamed,  but  now  in  her  right  mind, 

She  goes  forth  where  those  loving  counsels  guide, 
Shelter  and  kindly  ministries  to  find, 

And  strength  to  breast  the  mighty  social  tide 
That  surges  with  its  currents  pitiless 

Against  such  tossed  and  helpless  waifs  as  she. 
Will  she  again  drift  wide  from  happiness  ? 

Can  peace  in  hearts  like  hers  a  tenant  be  ? 

Listen  !     Far  down  the  ages  rings  the  Word  : 
"  Scarlet  with  guilt,  ye  shall  be  white  as  snow  ! " 


MYRA.  235 

"  Loving   much,   be   forgiven  much  !  "     The   dear 
Lord, 

The  Infinite  Purity,  spake  to  sinners  so, 
And  speaketh  still.    Oh  !   mortal,  who  art  thou, 

That  darest  to  any  soul  His  peace  forbid, 
Nor  pardon  to  the  erring  wilt  allow, 

Heedless  of  stains  in  thine  own  bosom  hid  ? 

Now  Myra,  sitting  at  her  innocent  work, 

Like  happier  women,  finds  life  grow  so  sweet ! 
If  in  her  heart  remorseful  memories  lurk, 

She,  face  to  face,  may  her  accusers  meet  ; 
For  Christ's  seal  on  the  closed  book  of  the  Past 

Hath  set  forgiveness  :  Love's  baptismal  dew 
Blends  with  her  tears,  and   through  them,   falling 
fast, 

She  hears  His  voice  :    "  Lo !   I   make  all   things 
new !  " 

And  what  if  she  be  drifted  back  again, 

Toward     the    black   whirlpool,    by    temptation's 

stress  ? 
Say  not  that  her  repentance  was  in  vain  — 

Nor  stay  thy  hand  from  her  in  wretchedness, 
Till  she  once  more  stand  upright  before  Heaven, 

Firm  in  humility,  and  so  endure  : 


236  MYRA. 

Seven   times  forgive  her ;  —  yea,  and  seven  times 
seven,  — 

Or  till  thyself  art  as  an  angel  pure ! 
Her  future  is  before  her ;  so  is  thine  : 

Hers,  with  an  evil  blight  upon  her  youth  ; 
Thine,  with  all  influences  to  guard,  refine, 

And  lure  thy  spirit  upward  into  truth. 
We  stand  or  fall  together  ;  whoso  shuns 

A  suffering  soul,  must  from  God's  way  depart : 
No  stumbling-block  before  His  little  ones 

Can  hurt  them  like  a  cold,  hard  human  heart. 

Who   sows  for  Heaven,  with  Heaven  at  last  shall 

reap; 

The  sheaves  bound  up,  the  gleanings  gathered  in, 
Sower  and  reaper  harvest-home  shall  keep  : 

And  all  along  the  field  —  this  world  of  sin  — 
Shall  hope  spring  up  and  sweeten  the  wide  air,  — 
Love's     holy    breath    scent     every    plant    that 

grows,  — 

Heaven's  light  burst  from  earth's  darkness  every 
where,  — 
All  wildernesses  blossom  as  the  rose ! 


YE  DID  IT  UNTO  ME. 

SINCE  Christ  is  still  alive  in  every  man 
Who  has  within  him  one  upspringing  germ 
Of    heavenward-reaching   life,    though  crushed,   in 
firm, 

And  dwindling  in  the  hot  simooms  that  fan 
Only  the  jungle-growths  of  earth,  — we  can 
Best  minister  to  Him  by  helping  them 
Who  dare  not  touch  His  hallowed  garment's  hem  : 
Their  lives  are  even  as  ours,  —  one  piece,  one  plan. 
Him  know  we  not,  Him  shall  we  never  know, 
Till  we  behold  Him  in  the  least  of  these 
Who  suffer  or  who  sin.      In  sick  souls  He 
Lies  bound  and  sighing ;  asks  our  sympathies  : 
Their  grateful  eyes  Thy  benison  bestow, 
Brother  and  Lord,  —  "  Ye  did  it  unto  Me." 


WOMAN'S   EASTER. 

WITH  Mary,  ere  dawn,  in  the  garden, 
I  stand  at  the  tomb  of  the  Lord ; 

I  share  in  her  sorrowing  wonder ; 
I  hear  through  the  darkness  a  word, 

The  first  the  dear  Master  hath  spoken, 

Since  the  awful  death-stillness  was  broken. 

He  calleth  her  tenderly  —  "  Mary  !  " 
Sweet,  sweet  is  His  voice  in  the  gloom. 

He  spake  to  us  first,  O  my  sisters, 
So  breathing  our  lives  into  bloom  ! 

He  lifteth  our  souls  out  of  prison ! 

We,  earliest,  saw  Him  arisen ! 

He  lives  !     Read  you  not  the  glad  tidings 
In  our  eyes,  that  have  gazed  into  His  ? 

He  lives  !     By  His  light  on  our  faces 
Believe  it,  and  come  where  He  is  ! 

O  doubter,  and  you  who  denied  Him, 

Return  to  your  places  beside  Him  ! 


WOMEN  S    EASTER.  239 

The  message  of  His  resurrection, 

To  man  it  was  woman's  to  give  : 
It  is  fresh  in  her  heart  through  the  ages  :  — 

"  He  lives,  that  ye  also  may  live, 
Unfolding,  as  He  hath,  the  story 
Of  manhood's  attainable  glory." 

O  Sun  on  our  souls  first  arisen, 

Give  us  light  for  the  spirits  that  grope ! 

Make  us  loving  and  steadfast  and  loyal 
To  bear  up  humanity's  hope  ! 

O  Friend  who  forsakest  us  never, 

Breathe  through  us  thy  errands  forever ! 


WHY    LIFE   IS    SWEET. 

BECAUSE  it  cometh  up,  a  heavenly  flower, 
Out  of  the  earth  —  divinely  sown  therein  — 

To  gather  grace  from  shadow  and  from  shower, 
And  freshness  of  invisible  worlds  to  win 

Unto  itself — not  to  be  hoarded  there, 

But  for  the  sweetening  of  the  common  air. 

Because  it  breathes  in  and  exhales  God's  breath, 
Its  natural  atmosphere,  and  so  grows  strong 

To  root  itself  amid  decay  and  death, 

And  lifts  its  head  above  the  poisonous  Wrong, 

And,  with  far-reaching  fibres,  push  apart 

The  noisome  evils  clutching  at  earth's  heart. 

It  is  not  sweet,  but  bitter,  sad,  and  vain, 
Living  in  shows  of  what  we  are  or  do  : 

The  after-taste  of  selfishness  is  pain  : 

In  hearts  that  grovel,  hope  must  grovel,  too  : 

Ever  our  petty  falsehoods  deathward  tend, 

Leave  us  defeated,  cheated  of  life's  end. 


WHY    LIFE    IS -SWEET.  24! 

It  is  not  sweet  to  compass  our  low  aim, 
And  sicken  of  it ;  —  nor  to  trail  the  wing 

In  dust,  whereon  eternal  dawn  should  flame : 

Even  love,  sin-touched,  is  an  unwholesome  thing, 

A  growth  reversed,  blight  clinging  into  blight ; 

Love,  meant  to  hallow  all  things  with  its  light. 

To  live  !  to  find  our  life  in  nobler  lives, 
Baptized  with  them  in  dews  of  holiness, 

Strengthened,  upraised,  by  every  soul  that  thrives 
In  the  clear  air  of  perfect  righteousness, 

And  sheltering  that  which  might  for  frailty  die, 

When,  with  hot  feet,  the  whirlwind  rushes  by  ! 

Oh,  sweet  to  live,  to  love,  and  to  aspire ! 

To  know  that  whatsoever  we  attain, 
Beyond  the  utmost  summit  of  desire, 

Heights  upon  heights  eternally  remain, 
To  humble  us,  to  lift  us  up,  to  show 
Into  what  luminous  deeps  we  onward  go. 

Because  the  Perfect,  evermore  postponed, 
Yet  ever  beckoning,  is  our  only  goal  : 

Because  the  deathless  Love  that  sits  enthroned 
On  changeless  Truth,  holds  us  in  firm  control  : 

Because  within  God's  Heart  our  pulses  beat  — 

Because  His  Law  is  holy  —  life  is  sweet ! 
16 


242  WHY    LIFE    IS    SWEET. 

Because  it  is  of  Him —  His  infinite  gift, 

Lost,  but  restored  by  One  who  came  to  share 

His  riches  with  our  poverty,  and  lift 

The  human  to  the  heavenly,  everywhere  ; 

Because  in  Christ  we  breathe  immortal  breath, 

Sweet,  sweet  is  life !     He  hath  abolished  death  ! 


THE   TRUE   WITNESS. 

DEAR  friend,  I  heard  thee  say  to  me, 

"  Christ  is  a  dream  : 
The  fiction  of  thy  heart  is  He,  — 

Its  self-lit  gleam." 

In  vain  I  tried  think  the  thought : 

Life  so  bereft, 
So  empty,  fancy  pictured  not ; 

Nothing  was  left :  — 

Scarcely  the  earth  whereon  I  stood  ; 

A  star  grown  dim  : 
Earth,  its  Creator  made  so  good, 

So  full  of  Him  ! 

For  all  truth  in  humanity 

With  Him  is  one  : 
Through  His  dear  children  God  I  see ; 

Father  through  Son. 


244  THE   TRUE   WITNESS. 

Thine  own  pure  life,  —  thought,  word,  and  deed, 

A  holy  flame,  — 
In  lines  of  light  that  all  may  read, 

Writes  out  His  name. 

No  loving  voice,  however  weak, 

But  echoes  His ! 
Dear  friend,  because  I  hear  thee  speak, 

I  know  He  is ! 


DAILY    BREAD. 

WHAT  is  the  daily  bread, 
Father,  we  ask  of  Thee,  — 

We,  who  must  still  be  fed 
Out  of  Thy  bounty  free  ? 

Not  at  the  household  board 
Is  our  deep  want  supplied : 

Bins  may  be  amply  stored, 
And  souls  unsatisfied. 

For  not  by  bread  alone, 
Can  we,  Thy  children,  live  : 

Some  heavenly  food  unknown 
Thou  unto  us  must  give. 

We  ask  not  meat  to  nurse 
Ambition's  vain  desire, 

Nor  greed  of  gain  —  the  curse 
Of  inward  cankering  fire. 


246  DAILY   BREAD. 

Nor  the  poor,  tasteless  husks 
That  swine  have  torn  and  trod 

And  ground  with  beastly  tusks  : 
Let  clod  be  given  to  clod  ! 

Nurtured  we  all  must  be 
By  Thy  sweet  Word  alone  : 

Asking  this  bread  of  Thee, 
Thou  wilt  not  give  a  stone. 

Thy  Life,  O  God  !     Thy  Word 
Outspoken  through  Thy  Son  ! 

In  Him  our  prayer  is  heard  ; 
Our  heart's  desire  is  won. 

To  sacrifice  —  to  share  — 
To  give,  even  as  He  gave : 

For  others'  wants  to  care  ; 
Not  our  own  lives  to  save  ;  — 

With  love  for  all  around 

Our  days  and  hours  to  fill :  — 

Thus  be  it  ever  found 

Our  meat  to  do  Thy  will ! 

This  is  the  living  bread 

Which  cometh  down  from  Heaven, 


DAILY    BREAD.  247 

Wherewith  our  souls  are  fed ; 
The  pure,  immortal  leaven. 

The  hidden  manna  this, 

Whereof  who  eateth,  he 
Grows  up  in  perfectness 

Of  Christ-like  symmetry. 

Who  seeks  this  bread,  shall  be 

Nor  stinted,  nor  denied : 
Our  hungry  souls  in  Thee, 

O  Christ !  are  satisfied  ! 


MY   CUP   RUNNETH    OVER. 

WHEREFORE    drink   with    me,    friends !    It    is    no 
draught 

Of  red  intoxication ;  at  its  brim 
No  vine-wreathed  head  of  Bacchus  ever  laughed  — 

This  homely  cup  of  mine,  now  worn  and  dim 

With  time's  rough  usage  ;  no  bright  bubbles  swim, 
Or  foam-beads  sparkle  over.  —  Have  ye  quaffed 
The  waters  clear  that  through  green  pastures  glide, 

Where  they  who  love  the  Shepherd  follow  Him  ? 
Brimmed  with  His  peace,  my  soul  is  satisfied  : 
Cooled  are  my  feverish  fancies  ;  calmed  the  stir 

Of  dreams  whose  end  was  only  bitterness. 
Healed  at  this  fount  our  inmost  ail  would  be, 
Did  we  but  health  before  disease  prefer,  — 

My  cup  is  filled  at  wells  whose  blessedness 
A  world's  thirst  cannot  drain.     Friends,  drink  with 
me  ! 


OUR   CHRIST. 

IN  Christ  I  feel  the  heart  of  God 
Throbbing  from  heaven  through  earth 

Life  stirs  again  within  the  clod, 
Renewed  in  beauteous  birth. 

The  soul  springs  up,  a  flower  of  prayer, 

Breathing  His  breath  out  on  the  air. 

In  Christ  I  touch  the  hand  of  God. 

From  His  pure  height  reached  down, 
By  blessed  ways  before  untrod, 

To  lift  us  to  our  crown  ; 
Victory  that  only  perfect  is 
Through  loving  sacrifice,  like  His. 

Holding  His  hand,  my  steadied  feet 

May  walk  the  air,  the  seas ; 
Oa  life  and  death  His  smile  falls  sweet  — 

Lights  up  all  mysteries  : 
Stranger  nor  exile  can  I  be 
In  new  worlds  where  He  leadeth  me. 


25O  OUR   CHRIST. 

Not  my  Christ  only ;  He  is  ours ; 

Humanity's  close  bond  ; 
Key  to  its  vast,  unopened  powers, 

Dream  of  our  dreams  beyond. 
What  yet  we  shall  be,  none  can  tell ; 
Now  are  we  His,  and  all  is  well. 


THE  LADDER  OF  ANGELS. 

WHEN  Jacob  slept  in  Bethel,  and  there  dreamed 
Of  angels  ever  climbing  and  descending 

A  ladder,  whose  last  height  of  splendor  seemed 
With  glory  of  the  Ineffable  Presence  blending, 

The  place  grew  sacred  to  his  reverent  thought. 

He  said  :  "  Lo  !  God  is  here.     I  knew  it  not." 

And  wherefore  did  they  fold  their  wings  of  light, 
Of  swiftness,  and  of  strength,  those  beings  holy, 

And  up  to  dawn  celestial,  through  earth's  night, 
Like  mortals,  step  by  step,  go  toiling  slowly  ? 

Was  it  to  teach  themselves  the  painful  way 

Man's  feet  must  take  to  their  familiar  day  ? 

Or  was  it  that  the  traveller,  laid  asleep 

On  his  stone  pillow,  with  an  inward  seeing, 

Should  learn  how  mightiest  spirits  reach  the  steep 
And  glorious  possibilities  of  being,  — 

Not  by  a  visionary  flight  sublime, 

But  up  the  foot-worn  ladder-rounds  of  time  ? 


252  THE    LADDER    OF    ANGELS. 

Foretold  they  His  descent,  the  Son  of  God, 

Who  humbly  clothed  Himself  in  vestments  mortal, 

And  so,  encumbered  with  our  weakness,  trod 
With  us  the  stairway  to  His  Father's  portal,  — 

To  life  whose  inner  secret  none  can  win 

Save  by  surmounting  earthliness  and  sin  ? 

The  patriarch's  vision  —  not  for  him  alone 
Lighted  that  golden  mystery  his  slumber ; 

Beneath  it  slept  a  world  of  souls  unknown  : 

When  God  sets  up  a  sign,  no  man  may  number 

Its  meanings  infinite.     Who  runneth  reads, 

And  finds  the  interpretation  that  he  needs. 

Wherever  upward,  even  the  lowest  round, 

Man  by  a  hand's  help  lifts  his  feebler  brother, 

There  is  the  house  of  God  and  holy  ground  : 

The  gate  of  Heaven  is  Love  ;  there  is  none  other. 

When  generous  act  blooms  from  unselfish  thought 

The  Lord  is  with  us,  though  we  know  it  not. 

This  ladder  is  let  down  in  every  place 
Where  unto  nobler  virtues  men  aspire : 

Our  human  lineaments  gain  angel  grace, 
Leaving  behind  low  aim  and  base  desire  : 

Deserts  of  earth  are  changed  to  Bethel  thus  ; 

The  vision  is  for  every  one  of  us. 


WINTER  MIDNIGHT. 

SPEAK  to  us  out  of  midnight's  heart, 
Thou  who  forever  sleepless  art ! 
The  thoughts  of  Night  are  still  and  deep ; 
She  doth  Thy  holiest  secrets  keep. 

The  voices  of  the  day  perplex  ; 
Her  crossing  lights  mislead  and  vex  : 
We  trust  ourselves  to  find  Thy  way, 
Or,  proudly  free,  prefer  to  stray. 

The  night  brings  dewfall,  still  and  sweet ; 
Soft  shadows  fold  us  to  Thy  feet : 
Thy  whisper  in  the  dark  we  hear,  — 
"  Soul,  cling  to  me !  none  else  is  near." 

Speak  to  us  by  white  winter's  breath, 
Thou  Life  behind  the  mask  of  death, 
That  makest  the  snowfall  eloquent 
As  summer's  stir  in  earth's  green  tent ! 


254  WINTER    MIDNIGHT. 

Close  unto  Winter's  quiet  breast, 
Summer,  a  sleeping  babe,  is  pressed  : 
Till  waking-time  she  safe  will  hold 
His  bloom  and  freshness  manifold. 

O  Night  and  Winter  !  Cold  and  gloom  ! 
O  marble  mystery  of  the  tomb ! 
God's  hieroglyphs  to  man  are  ye ; 
Sealed  visions  of  what  yet  shall  be. 

Better  is  blessedness  concealed 
From  sight,  than  joy  to  sense  revealed. 
Thanks  for  this  happy  mortal  breath  : 
Praise,  for  the  life  wrapped  up  in  death ! 


SEA-SIDE  HYMN. 

INTO  the  ocean  of  Thy  peace, 

Almighty  One,  my  thoughts  would  flow ; 
Bid  their  unrestful  murmuring  cease, 

And  Thy  great  calmness  let  me  know  ! 

The  world  is  bright  and  glad  in  Thee  ! 

No  hopeless  gloom  her  face  enshrouds  : 
Joy  lights  her  mountains,  thrills  her  sea, 

And  weaves  gay  tints  through  all  her  clouds. 

The  shadow,  Father,  is  our  own, 
That  sends  across  our  path  a  stain  : 

The  discord  is  in  us  alone, 

That  makes  the  echoing  earth  complain. 

O  God,  how  beautiful  is  life, 

Since  Thou  its  soul  and  sweetness  art ! 
How  dies  its  childish  fret  and  strife 

On  thy  all-harmonizing  heart ! 


SEA-SIDE    HYMN. 

Leaving  behind  me  dust  and  clay, 
From  selfish  hindrances  set  free, 

I  find  at  last  my  broadening  way 
Unto  my  ocean-rest  in  Thee. 

One  soul  with  Thee  forevermore, 

Borne  high  beyond  the  gulfs  of  death,  — 

A  joy  that  ripples  on  Thy  shore, — 

With  Life's  vast  hymn  I  blend  my  breath. 


DRAWING  NEARER. 

ARE  we  daily  drawing  nearer 
Thee,  the  Perfect,  the  Unseen  ? 

Grows  the  pathway  ever  clearer, 
Stretching  sense  and  God  between  ? 

Thine  own  messengers  beside  us 
Wait,  wherever  we  may  be  ; 

Earth  and  heaven  are  met,  to  guide  us 
Nearer  unto  Thee. 

In  the  web  of  beauty's  weaving, 
In  the  picture  and  the  song, 

In  our  dreaming  and  believing, 
By  our  friendships  borne  along, 

By  our  own  heart's  human  story, 
By  the  light  on  land  and  sea, 

Glimpsing  unimagined  glory, 
Draw  we  nearer  Thee  ? 

In  our  doings  and  ambitions  ; 

Heaping  gold  and  probing  thought ; 

17 


258  DRAWING    NEARER. 

In  crude  science,  worn  traditions, 
Finds  the  spirit  what  it  sought  ? 

In  the  tumult  of  the  nations, 
Surging  like  a  shoreward  sea, 

Are  Thy  sundered  congregations 
Gathering  unto  Thee  ? 

With  the  footsteps  of  the  ages, 
Are  we  drawing  nearer  Thee  ? 

Beautiful  upon  Time's  pages 
Will  our  name  and  record  be  ? 

Year  on  year  of  worthier  living 
Add  we  to  life's  glorious  sum  ? 

Through  our  failures,  Thy  forgiving, 
Lord,  Thy  kingdom  come ! 

Over  fallen  towers  of  error, 

Laid  by  our  own  hands  in  dust; 

Past  the  ghosts  of  doubt  and  terror, 
Out  of  sloth's  in-eating  rust ; 

From  Gomorrah's  lurid  smouldering, 
Borders  of  the  drear  Dead  Sea,  — 

Graves  where  selfish  loves  lie  mouldering, 
Fly  we  unto  Thee. 

Vain  a  secret  hoard  to  carry 
From  our  ruined  house  of  pride ; 


DRAWING    NEARER.  259 

Weights  that  hinder,  fiends  that  harry, 

Are  the  idols  that  we  hide. 
Draw  us  rather  by  the  sweetness 

Of  Thy  breath  in  living  things, 
To  Thyself,  with  unclogged  fleetness, 
Lifted,  as  on  wings  ! 

Dogmas  into  truth  transmuting  ; 

Fusing  differences  in  love  ; 
Creed  and  rite  no  more  disputing, 

Closing  rank  and  file  we  move  ; 
Leaving  our  dead  Past  behind  us, 

Turning  not,  nor  looking  back  : 
May  no  wayside  glimmer  blind  us 
To  the  one  straight  track  ! 

Brother  hastening  unto  brother, 

Youth  rewakening  in  our  eyes, 
Loving  Thee  and  one  another, 

Find  we  our  lost  Paradise. 
Where  the  heart  is,  there  the  treasure  ; 

Led  by  paths  we  cannot  see 
Unto  heights  no  guess  can  measure, 
Draw  we  nearer  Thee  ! 

Nearer  Thee,  through  every  aeon, 
Every  universe  of  Thine  ! 


260  DRAWING    NEARER. 

Man  and  seraph  swell  one  paean, 

Harmonizing  chords  divine. 
Thine  from  Thee  no  power  can  sever  ; 

Through  death's  veil  Thy  face  they  see ; 
Saved,  forever  and  forever 
Drawing  nearer  Thee  ! 


HIS    BIRTHDAY. 

IT  is  His  birthday  —  His,  the  Holy  Child  ! 
And  innocent  childhood  blossoms  now  anew, 
Under  the  dropping  of  celestial  dew  •«. 

Into  its  heart,  out  of  this  heavenlier  Flower, 
That  penetrates  the  lowliest  roof-tree  bower 

With  fragrance  of  an  Eden  undenled  : 

O  happy  children,  praise  Him  in  your  mirth,  - 
The  Son  of  God  born  with  you  on  the  earth  ! 

It  is  His  birthday  —  His,  in  whom  our  youth 
Becomes  immortal.     Nothing  good,  or  sweet, 
Or  beautiful,  or  needful  to  complete 
The  being  that  He  shares,  shall  surfer  blight ; 
•  All  that  in  us  His  Father  can  delight, 

He  saves,  He  makes  eternal  as  His  truth. 
Praise  Him  for  one  another,  loyal  friends  ! 
The  friendship  He  awakens,  never  ends. 

It  is  His  birthday  —  and  this  world  of  ours 
Is  a  new  earth,  since  He  hath  dwelt  therein ; 


262  HIS    BIRTHDAY. 

Is  even  as  heaven,  since  One  Life  without  sin 
Made  it  a  home  :  His  voice  is  in  the  air  ; 
His  face  looks  forth  from  beauty  everywhere ; 
His  breath  is  sweetness  as  the  soul  of  flowers  : 
And  in  Him  — joy  beyond  all  joy  of  these  — 
Man  wakes  to  glorious  possibilities. 

It  is  His  birthday  —  and  our  birthday  too  ! 
Humanity  was  one  long  dream  of  Him, 
Until  He  came :  with  fitful  glow,  and  dim, 
The  altars  heavenward  smoked  from  vague  desire, 
Despair  half  stifling  aspiration's  fire. 

He  is  man's  lost  ideal,  shining  through 
This  life  of  ours,  whereinto  floweth  His  ; 
God,  interblent  with  human  destinies. 

It  is  His  birthday,  —  His,  the  only  One 

Who  ever  made  life's  meaning  wholly  plain ; 
Dawn  is  He  to  our  night  !    No  longer  vain 
And  purposeless  our  onward-struggling  years  ; 
The  hope  He  bringeth  over-floods  our  fears  : 

Now  do  we  know  the  Father,  through  the  Son  ! 
O  earth,  O  heart,  be  glad  on  this  glad  morn  ! 
God  is  with  man  !  Life,  Life  to  us  is  born  ! 


DOOR  AND   KEEPER. 

THE  corridors  of  Time 

Are  full  of  doors  —  the  portals  of  closed  years  ; 
We  enter  them  no  more,  though  bitter  tears 
Beat  hard  against  them,  and  we  hear  the  chime 
Of  lost  dreams,  dirge-like,  in  behind  them  ring 

At  Memory's  opening. 

But  one  door  stands  ajar  — 
The  New  Year's  ;  while  a  golden  chain  of  days 
Holds  it  half  shut.     The  eager  foot  delays 
That  presses  to  its  threshold's  mighty  bar  ; 
And  fears  that  shrink,  and  hopes  that  shout  aloud, 

Around  it  wait  and  crowd. 

It  shuts  back  the  Unknown  :  — 
And  dare  we  truly  welcome  one  more  year, 
Who  down  the  past  a  mocking  laughter  hear 
From  idle  aims  like  wandering  breezes  blown  ? 
We  whose  large  aspirations  dimmed  and  shrank, 

Till  the  year's  scroll  was  blank  ? 


264  DOOR   AND    KEEPER. 

We  pause  beside  this  door. 
Thy  year,  O  God,  how  shall  we  enter  in  ? 
How  shall  we  thence  Thy  hidden  treasures  win  ? 
Shall  we  return  in  beggary,  as  before, 
When  Thou  art  near  at  hand,  with  infinite  wealth, 

Wisdom,  and  heavenly  health  ? 

The  footsteps  of  a  Child 

Sound  close  beside  us.     Listen  !     He  will  speak. 
His  birthday  bells  have  hardly  rung  a  week, 
Yet  has  He  trod  the  world's  press  undefiled  : 
"  Come  with  me  ! "  hear  him  through  his  smiling  say. 

"Behold,  lam  the  Way!" 

Against  the  door  His  face 
Shines  as  the  sun  :  His  touch  is  a  command  : 
The  years  unfold  before  His  baby  hand ; 
The  beauty  of  His  presence  fills  all  space. 
"  Enter  through  me,"  he  saith,  "  nor  wander  more ; 

"For  lo!  I  am  the  Door." 

And  all  doors  openeth  He, 

The  new-born  Christ,  the  Lord  of  the  New  Year, 
The  threshold  of  our  locked  hearts  standeth  near ; 
And  while  He  gives  us  back  love's  rusted  key, 
Our  Future  on  us  with  His  eyes  has  smiled 

Even  as  a  little  child. 


THY  KINGDOM  COME. 

SOMETIMES  a  vision  comes  to  me 
Of  what  Thy  world  was  meant  to  be,  — 
Thy  beauty  all  things  shining  through,  — 
Thy  love  in  all  the  works  we  do. 

I  shade  my  spirit's  dazzled  sight 
Before  the  splendor  of  that  light : 
Earth  crowned  with  heaven's  pure  diadem 
The  Bride  —  the  new  Jerusalem  ! 

For  this  alone  didst  Thou  descend, 
O  Son  of  God,  man's  glorious  Friend, 
Out  of  Thy  Father's  blessedness,  — 
That  human  life  might  be  as  His. 

Thy  Kingdom  come,  our  souls  within  ! 
Where  Thou  art,  is  no  room  for  sin  : 
Oh  show  us  what  our  lives  may  be, 
Led  home  to  Him,  by  following  Thee  ! 


IMMORTAL  YEARS. 

THEY  come,  they  linger  with  us,  and  they  go, 

The  lovely  years  ! 

Into  our  hearts  we  feel  their  beauty  grow ; 
Through  them  the  meaning  of  our  life  we  know, 

Its  joys,  its  fears. 

They  whom  God  sent  us,  robed  in  sacred  light, 

Out  of  His  sky, 

With  snow  and  roses,  stars  and  sunbeams  bright 
Too  beautiful  they  must  be  in  his  sight 

Ever  to  die. 

Though  down  the  long,  dim  avenues  of  the  Past 

Their  swift  feet  fled, 
In  His  eternity  the  rooms  are  vast ; 
There  wait  they,  to  be  ours  again  at  last :  — 

They  are  not  dead. 

Are  they  not  in  immortal  friendship  ours, 
Always  our  own  ? 


IMMORTAL    YEARS.  26/ 

Never  in  vain  bloomed  one  of  their  sweet  flowers, 
Whose  rose-breath  up  through  blessed  Eden  bowers 
Climbed  to  His  throne. 

Immortal  by  their  sadness,  in  our  thought 

That  lingers  yet ; 

Their    gracious     rainbow-smiles,    with    clouds    in 
wrought  ; 
Their  gentleness,  that  from  our  errors  caught 

Shadowy  regret. 

Immortal,  by  their  kind  austerities 

Of  storm  and  frost, 

That  drove  us  from  our  palaces  of  lies  — 
Baseless,  unsheltering  splendors,  that  arise 

At  a  soul's  cost 

The  immortal  years  —  they  are  a  part  of  us, 

Our  life,  our  breath : 

Their  sorrows  in  our  eyes  hang  tremulous  — 
Ours  in  a  union  tender,  glorious, 

Stronger  than  death. 

Poorer  or  richer,  with  us  they  remain 

As  our  own  soul ; 

None  shall  divorce  us  from  our  mutual  pain, 
Nothing  shall  take  away  our  common  gain, 

While  ages  roll. 


268  IMMORTAL    YEARS. 

Out  of  the  years  bloom  the  eternities  : 

From  earth-clogged  root 

Life  climbs  through  leaf  and  bud,  by  slow  degrees, 
Till  some  far  cycle  heavenly  blossom  sees, 

And  perfect  fruit. 

And  nothing  dies  that  ever  was  alive ; 

All  that  endears 

And  sanctifies  the  human  must  survive  ; 
Of  God  they  are,  and  in  His  smile  they  thrive  — 

The  immortal  years. 


FORETASTE. 

How  do  I  know  that  after  this 

Another  life  there  is  ? 
Another  life  ?     There  is  but  one, 

In  mystery  begun, 

Continued  in  a  miracle,  God's  breath, 
The  living  soul,  spells  not  the  name  of  death. 

How  know  I  that  I  am  alive  ? 

So  only  as  I  thrive 
On  truth,  whose  sweetness  keeps  the  soul 

Vigorous  and  pure  and  whole  : 
Heaven's  health  within  is  immortality ; 
The  life  that  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 

To  grasp  the  Hereafter  is  not  mine  ; 

And  yet  a  voice  divine 
Hath,  page  by  page,  interpreted 

Time's  book,  while  I  have  read. 
And,  as  my  heart  in  wisdom  shall  unfold, 
Secrets  of  unseen  heavens  shall  I  be  told. 


27O  FORETASTE. 

To  Thy  Beyond  no  fear  I  give ; 

Because  Thou  livest,  I  live,  — 
Unsleeping  Friend !  why  should  I  wake, 

Troublesome  thought  to  take 
For  any  strange  to-morrow  ?     In  Thy  hand, 
Days  and  eternities  like  flowers  expand. 

Odors  from  blossoming  worlds  unknown 

Across  my  path  are  blown ; 
Thy  robes  trail  hither  myrrh  and  spice 

From  farthest  paradise  ; 
I  walk  through  Thy  fair  universe  with  Thee, 
And  sun  me  in  Thine  immortality. 


YET   ONWARD. 

I  THANK  Thee,  Lord,  for  precious  things 
Which  Thou  into  my  life  hast  brought; 

More  gratefully  my  spirit  sings 
Its  thanks  for  all  I  yet  have  not. 

How  fair  Thy  world  to  me  has  been ! 

How  dear  the  friends  who  breathe  its  air! 
But  who  can  guess  what  waits  within 

Thine  opening  realms,  Thy  worlds  more  fair  ? 

That  which  I  had  has  slipped  away, 

Lost  in  the  abysses  of  the  Past ; 
By  that  I  lack  am  I  to-day 

Heir  of  Thine  undawned  aeons  vast. 

The  best  things  joy  to  me  has  brought, 
Have  been  its  sigh  of  yearning  pain  ; 

Its  dreams  of  bliss  unguaged  by  thought ; 
Its  dear  despairs,  which  yet  remain. 

If  Thou  Thyself  at  once  could  give, 
Then  wert  thou  not  the  God  Thou  art ; 


2/2  YET    ONWARD. 

To  explore  Thy  secret  is  to  live  — 
Creation's  inexhaustible  Heart. 

To  some  Thou  givest  at  ease  to  lie, 
Content  in  anchored  happiness  : 

Thy  breath  my  full  sail  swelling,  I 

Across  thy  broadening  seas  would  press ! 

Dear  voyagers,  though  each  nearing  oar 

Around,  is  music  to  my  ear,  — 
Sweeter  to  hear,  far  on  before 

Some  swifter  boatman  calls,  "  Good  cheer ! " 

At  friendly  shores,  at  peaceful  isles, 
I  touch,  but  may  not  long  delay ; 

Where  Thy  flushed  East  with  mystery  smiles, 
I  steer  into  the  unrisen  day. 

For  veils  of  hope  before  Thee  drawn, 
For  mists  that  hint  the  immortal  coast 

Hid  in  Thy  farthest,  faintest  dawn,  — 
My  God,  for  these  I  thank  Thee  most. 

Joy,  joy  !  to  see,  from  every  shore 

Whereon  my  step  makes  pressure  fond, 

Thy  sunrise  reddening  still  before  ;  — 
More  light,  more  love,  more  life  beyond  ! 


/  / 


'fr/'E 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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